


What If This Storm Ends

by EnduringChill



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eventual Sex, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sexual Tension, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:51:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 64,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringChill/pseuds/EnduringChill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is the next big thing out of England with his hit TV show on BBC. Now after hard work, he is looking to make his mark on Hollywood, Broadway and the rest of the universe. For that, he will need the help of talent agency. That's where Watson Creative comes in. Headed up by the eldest Watson brother, Harry, Watson Creative is a smaller firm than CCA or William Morris. With one gaze upon John Watson, Sherlock knows his life is about to change. John will try to guide the rising star through scripts and public relations nightmares while resisting the actor's flirtations. After all, he is set to marry an actress himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock**

**  
**

 

From the first moment, I knew you were going to change my life. I had thought it would be just be my career.

New York in the summer is stifling. I’d rather be back in London in my unfinished flat than this posh hotel taking meetings with every agent in the business. The one thing I can appreciate about the city is the anonymity it affords me. While some have seen my work on this side of the pond, most have not. I can sit in this sidewalk cafe and do what I love best - observe.

I’m not sure what draws my eyes in your direction, but compared to the patrons around me, you capture my interest. You sip iced tea while bent over an iPad. You are also a Londoner, but you live here. You’ve been here for awhile now. By your physique, perhaps you spend time in Hollywood. I can’t help but notice defined forearms as your roll up the sleeves of your shirt. 

You are in the business somehow. People pass your table and stop to chat. You smile easily, but you hold yourself respectfully, like you’ve been in service. It’s been five years, maybe a little more since you’ve held a gun. However, the way your hands move gracefully and cryptically - you were not just a soldier. An engineer perhaps? No. They are too cold and there is genuine warmth in your eyes. A doctor. That is definitely it. 

Just when I think I might lose interest in you and start on new prey, a taller man joins you. His stature and mannerisms are similar - familial. I suspect he is younger by a few years unless your time in the service has aged you prematurely. I watch as you both pour over phones and iPads together. A family business in show business. Perhaps you are writers, but you are not scrutinizing the public around you as writers do. 

I glance around at the other patrons and decide they are not worth my time or talents. The cafe is filled with either tourists or New Yorkers - boring. Instead, I prefer to watch you - the ex-pat trying to fit in to this bizarre and hectic city.

My mobile buzzes on the table beside me. I would rather not answer it, but I know he will just keep calling until I do. 

"Yes," I say lazily. 

"Where are you? You were supposed to be at the hotel an hour ago!" Greg hollers in my ear. 

"Can’t you just pick one for me?" I sigh. 

You’ve just spilled some white wine on your shirt. I watch your ears turn crimson. 

"Sherlock, you know I can’t do that. You have to find the right agent. You are going to be working with them," Greg implores. 

"Just don’t pick a female. They all get weepy and enamored with me. It’s too uncomfortable." I wave for the check. I have every intention of going to this ridiculous reception tonight. I’m not entirely certain why as I will probably just sign with William Morris or Creative Artists. Greg had convinced me to look at smaller firms like Rising Talent and Watson Creative. 

"The reception starts at eight. You need to be showered and ready to go by 7:30 the absolute latest," Greg states. 

I look at my wristwatch. It was precisely 6:15. 

"Fine, Lestrade. I am on my way." I end the call. 

You are also paying your bill. You fight your brother for it, tossing down a wad of American currency ahead of his credit card. How chivalrous. I suppose that now is a better time than any to leave as the most entertaining part of my day is leaving.

~~~~~~~

**John**

"So where is this git?" I ask. It’s past 8:30, and this whole thing has been put in motion for an actor that can’t be bothered to show. "Why are we trying so hard? I heard he is a nightmare to work with."

Harry glances over. “That annoying git has four movies coming out next year. He’s the hottest thing to leave England since One Direction. If we land him, we definitely open the London office.”

Ah, the long road home. My older brother moved to New York to pursue his career in entertainment management after discovering that England only had about 20 actors to represent. He had been perfectly happy to forget The motherland had entertainment at all until BBC shows like “Downton Abbey”, “Office” and “the Curious Case of Mr. Hunter” became huge around the world. Harsaw British entertainment a bit differently.

"He’s rumored to be the new James Bond," he offers.

I frown. “Daniel is not ready to leave the franchise.”

"He might not have a choice," Harry smirks.

I sigh and nurse my wine. I would rather be home then awaiting on some diva to make his appearance. I think Harry is daft for even trying. A few of our model clients mill about looking more bored than usual. They were asked to attend to ‘for decoration’. 

I see a flurry of activity by the entrance of the restaurant and know it must be the guest of honor. Harry rubs his hands together like a juicy steak has been place before him. 

"Ready?" he asks.

You cut through the crowd with all the cool grace of a swan. Your eyes sweep the room with sharp detail and bored detachment. I’ve seen a few of your movies and the large screen does not do you justice. You are rail thin but still an imposing figure with sharp cheekbones pointing to a mess of soft curls flopping into cat eyes. God, you are rather gorgeous - for a man. 

I clasp my hands behind my back to wait for Harry’s instruction. He rushes to take your hand. 

"Sherlock Holmes, this is a pleasure," he gushes.

Your eyes fix on mine and something flickers in them momentarily before they return to disaffected. “Harry, I presume?”

"Yes, let me introduce you to my partners." Harry steps aside but keeps you close.

"This is Andrew." He gestures to the youngest and most handsome of us Watson boys. "He runs our Los Angles office."

You lean forward to brusquely shake his hand yet your eyes bore into me. I must have a spot on my suit. I’ll get an earful from Harry about that. 

"And this is John," says Harry, like I was an afterthought. Being the middle son, I’m accustomed to that type of regard. 

You step towards me, your frame towering over mine. “Pleasure, John.”

Your voice is like smoothest dark chocolate cascading over the bodies of vestal virgins. I am beginning to think you are not acting as a vampire on your Sci-fi show - perhaps you are undead. Long fingers wrap around my hand in a firm handshake. 

 

 

"Welcome, Mr. Holmes." I manage a wide smile that I hope comes across as easy and confident. No wonder you are so difficult to work with - you are an unnerving tosser.

Your head tilts. “Please, Sherlock.” 

I take my hand and a step back. 

"Can I get you a drink?" Harry asks.

Finally, you look away. “Champagne please.”

Harry turns to me. “Fetch us some champagne.”

Despite loading our firm with some heavy talent, Harry still sees me as a glorified errand boy. Grumbling, I leave for the bar. Why Andrew is privy to this meeting, I’ll never know. After all, he works in LA.

I look forward to Harry’s move to London if he can sign you. Harry’s wife, a native New Yorker, is not looking forward to relocating. I envision months of bickering. To be honest, I revel in the notion. 

When I return, Harry does all the talking. You are joined by a taller man with mostly salt and some pepper hair. You interrupt Harry to introduce me immediately to Greg Lestrade, your manager. I recall the name in the utterances about this meeting. It was Greg that convinced you to look at smaller firms like ours. 

I hand you the crystal flute, and I see the hint of a smile - or was it a smirk? Regardless, you aren’t a bad bloke as far as I can tell. You’ve been polite if not a bit dissecting. I can’t blame you for sizing us up. This is your career after all.

Once you’ve drained your glass, you rub your hands together. “So Harry, what are you going to do for me and my career?”

Harry launches into his Sherlock Holmes game plan. There are several scripts on the horizon Harry has picked out for you. Andrew has excellent relations with the magazine (and their models). I really offer nothing more than my enthusiasm. I’ve been handling most of the musical artists on our roster - and the lesser known rising stars. 

I’m not sure you are even paying attention. Your gaze is far away. You allow Greg to do all the nodding and yessing. In fact, I let my mind wander. If this ends soon enough, I might be able to go over to Claudia’s. Do I have clean shorts over there? It might be time to bring up the subject of moving in together again. It would be easier than trying to get a taxi to cross town at any time of the day.

I look up to see your stare boring into me. I wonder how long you’ve been watching me. My skin feels hot and uncomfortable. You caught me checking out of the conversation. If you mention that to Harry, I’ll never hear the end of it. But honestly, Harry could give a fuck if I’m here to add my two measly cents. 

"You will be my first priority," Harry says to you. 

"So you would be handling me exclusively?" You turn your gaze to him. "Not one of your associates? And would I be your only client?"

Harry falters. “I-I-I can’t promise that I might not need to send Andrew with you. You would be my first priority, but I would still have other clients.”

You lean over to say something in Greg’s ear. 

"Are you sure?" Greg asks.

"Very," you nod. "Harry, I will sign exclusively to your firm under one condition."

A smile breaks across Harry’s face. You could demand sex with his wife and he’d drive you over to his place right now. “Anything, Sherlock.”

Harry looks hungry as if he’s seen his prey and he’s ready to feast off its flesh. 

"I want John to represent me." And those surreal eyes fix on me.

Harry coughs. “John? I don’t….”

My face feels warm. I’ve never been signaled out. “Me?”

"Yes, if I am to trust my career and public image to anyone, it is you."

 

 

Harry rubs the back of his neck. “The thing is, I am the one moving to London. You are the first client at our London office.”

"You don’t have a London office." You look at your nails, totally bored with the conversation. 

"You are our first client," Harry implores. 

With a sigh, you step closer to Harry. “You have a wife from New York who has absolutely no interest in moving to another continent.” Those dissecting eyes turn to me. “While John is in a relationship, he is the most fluid to move back to the London to expand your firm. Being an actress herself, she will be able to visit. However, your wife is pregnant and the move would be stressful on her.”

How did you know all those things about us?

"How did…?" Harry stutters.

"Obvious. You’ve been checking your mobile and watch. Your wife is expecting you home. Your enthusiasm in moving to London is lackluster at best. While you are salivating over the prospect of signing me, you have no interest in actually working with me. I am demanding and require full attention. You cannot offer that as an expectant father."

Harry’s mouth hangs open - speechless. 

"And me? How did you?" I ask.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. “While your brother talked, you slipped into another world. Probably wondering if you would be able to get to Claudia’s for a late night shag. It’s been a few days, judging by the clenching of your fist and shifting of your weight.”

"That was brilliant and a bit intrusive," I say. "How did you know her name was Claudia?"

A smile graces that elegant face. “John, she’s an actress. You’ve been photographed in magazines with her.”

Of course - obvious.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Sherlock**

Boring. 

Greg ushers me into an upscale restaurant. Harry Watson is desperate to impress me. He’s filled this establishment with tall vapid models. When I walk into the room, they circle ready to dazzle me. 

Boring. 

I spot Harry Watson in a cluster of males. He covers his grey with trips to the salon, but it fails to match his light brown hair. He was once fit, but his bargain basement Calvim Klein pants strain over his bulging middle. He looks about the room with beady-greedy eyes. Beside him is a taller man, a younger brother. They have the same thin mouth and similar stance, but the younger Watson has larger eyes and an easier disposition from living in Los Angeles. Compared to the elder Watson, the younger man wears a sleek suit without a tie revealing sun-kissed skin. 

Boring. 

"Let’s get this over with," I sigh. 

"Sherlock Holmes, this is a pleasure," Harry Watson says slickly. 

I do not extend my hand to him, but nod. “Harry, I presume?”

Just beyond Harry, I see you. A heat spreads over me momentarily. In a flash, I recall where I had seen the taller Watson. He was with you in the cafe. Suddenly this charade doesn’t seem like a waste of my precious time. 

 

 

 

"Yes, let me introduce you to my partners," Harry says.

I do not hear what Harry says after that. You are the middle son of a family of three boys. Your posture has changed from this afternoon. Under Harry’s gaze, your shoulders slump. Your brow creases in worry of his judgement. 

"And this is John," Harry mutters. You give him a withering glare before turning your gaze to mine. 

I gravitate closer. “Pleasure, John.”

Your hand is firm and solid, like you. By your eyes, my reputation has preceded me. You offer an uneasy smile as you give me a quick nod.

"Welcome Mr. Holmes." 

"Please, Sherlock,"  I say. 

Usually a man for facts, I get an overwhelming notion that you are the person I want guiding and protecting my career and life. Harry might have been in the business for years and forged alliances big and small. With your wide eyes and calming presence, it’s you that I want. 

Harry intercepts. “Can I get you a drink?”

"Champagne, please." I would be terribly surprised if they have champagne. It will be some kind of sparkling wine of moderate quality. 

"Fetch us some champagne," Harry barks at you. 

You bite your lip  - desperate to tell Harry to fuck off. I can hear it strangle in your throat. With a terse nod, you are off to the bar. 

I allow Greg and Harry do the talking. I know exactly what I want, it was just waiting for the right time to make that known. While you wait at the bar, a leggy model kisses your cheek. She has to bend to do so. You chat amiably with her - you offer her no threat. That is when it hits me - I have seen you before - even before the cafe today. 

You return with three flutes in your hand. Knowing Harry wishes to present me with one, I reach out to take one from you. You swallow as our fingers brush. Harry takes the other two from you. One is for himself and the other for Andrew. Annoyance hits your blue eyes as they ice over. You’ve been disregarded and exiled from this meeting by Harry’s action. 

In fact, I don’t blame you for mentally checking out. You stare at the ground while chewing your bottom lip - most likely to keep from giving out to Harry over his treatment of you. Your hand clenches from frustration - but t’s not just from your brother. You haven’t seen your steady girlfriend in a few days as she’s been busy shooting a movie. You glance at your watch and bounce on the balls of your feet. You plan a late night visit for some satisfaction. It’s mediocre sex at best. I bet it’s been years since you’ve had really mind blowing sex. I can see that emptiness in your soul. 

I allow Harry to spin large tales and grand plans. Greg does all my talking and asks all my questions. I finish my drink before setting my gaze upon Harry.

“Harry, what are you going to do for me and my career?”

"You will be my first priority," Harry says. 

"So you would be handling me exclusively? Not one of your associates? And would I be your only client?"

Harry falters. “I-I-I can’t promise that I might not need to send Andrew with you. You would be my first priority, but I would still have other clients.”

I pull Greg aside. “I want John.”

Greg frowns disapprovingly.  “Are you sure?”

"Very." Greg knows to not deny me what I desire. "Harry, I will sign exclusively to your firm under one condition."

Harry’s chest puffs up in pride. “Anything Sherlock.”

"I want John to represent me."

You look to me with wide eyes. You are a mixture of wonder and gratitude. I’ve yanked the golden chalice from Harry and given it you. A smile threatens to curl on your lips. 

"John, I don’t…." Harry stammers. He looks to you to set it right, to deny my request and convince me that I should work with him instead.

You blink in shock. “Me?”

"Yes, if I am to trust my career and public image to anyone, it is you." 

Harry rubs the back of his neck. “The thing is, I am the one moving to London. You are the first client at our London office.”

"You don’t have a London office." I point out.

"You are our first client," Harry implores. 

I sigh heavily and Greg stiffens beside me, He knows what is coming. “You have a wife from New York who has absolutely no interest in moving to another continent.” My eyes wash over you. “While John is in a relationship, he is the most fluid to move back to the London to expand your firm. Being an actress herself, she will be able to visit. However, your wife is pregnant and the move would be stressful on her.”

"How did…?" Harry pales.

"Obvious. You’ve been checking your mobile and watch. Your wife is expecting you home. Your enthusiasm in moving to London is lackluster at best. While you are salivating over the prospect of signing me, you have no interest in actually working with me. I am demanding and require full attention. You cannot offer that as an expectant father."

As usual, I’ve stunned another idiot silent. 

"And me? How did you?" you ask, almost mesmerized. 

I turn my full attention to you. I note that you are overdue for a haircut. Perhaps your significant other prefers it floppy. “While your brother talked, you slipped into another world. Probably wondering if you would be able to get to Claudia’s for a late night shag. It’s been a few days, judging by the clenching of your fist and shifting of your weight.”

"That was brilliant and a bit intrusive," you smile. "How did you know her name was Claudia?"

 

 

I cock my head with a smile. “John, she’s an actress. You’ve been photographed in magazines with her.”

You nod. “Of course.”

I clasp my hands together. “Do we have an agreement?”

Harry is not pleased. His cheeks puff in and out as he scratches his head. His mind tries to come up with any way to change my position. 

Greg steps forward. “Harry, he will walk. It’s that simple. He doesn’t need you, but you need him.”

Harry looks as if he’s been punched, right in the ego. One look, he knows I will not change my mind. He turns to look at Andrew - not even you - for counsel. 

"Claire didn’t want to move anyway." Andrew shrugs. "How do you feel about it?" He looks to you.

"I wasn’t prepared to move, to be honest. I like New York," you say. "I have a lot of clients here."

Andrew places his hand on your shoulder. “This is your chance to make something your own.”

Your eyes meet mine. You regard me carefully. “Why me?”

"Call it actor’s instinct." 

Truthfully, I cannot explain to myself why I feel compelled to hire you over Harry or a larger firm like Creative Artists. Something deep inside pulls to this decision. I rarely back down from my instincts. 

"Perhaps we should meet tomorrow in my office after some strong coffee." He looks to me. "Or tea and discuss this."

"Harry, I assure the only thing to discuss is when John will be moving to London and how I can assist in the process," I state firmly. 

* * * * * 

"What was that about?" Greg fires at me in the back of the hired car. 

"I thought it went well." I don’t open my eyes. My head hurts and I just want to be in a dark room with some cold water. 

"What was that about the John guy? Is there something you aren’t telling me?" Greg asks.

"Like what? I found Harry to be insufferable. I read their portfolio and they are loyal and hard working for their clients. John, the middle child, is largely ignored but seriously the most stable of that firm." I give Greg a wry smile. "Besides, everyone underestimates the quiet ones."

"Sherlock, have you found your groove?" He raises an eyebrow.

 

 

"If by groove you mean my sex drive, no. I have no interest in a physical relationship with anyone. The work is the only thing important. How can I immerse myself in a role if I have my own drama and emotions to contend with?" I sigh.

"Some actors use those to help them in roles."

"Lesser actors require that. I do not. I require focus. John is unassuming and he will not bother me like Harry would." I look out the window. "Besides, I’m off men."

"So, it’s women now?" Greg asks.

"No, but at some point, I may want offspring."

Neither does anything for me lately. Men and women are needy alike. Yet, I cannot explain why I want you by my side.


	2. Begin the Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John moves back to London at Sherlock's insistence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long between chapters. Life is crazy with a new baby. I hope it is not as long for the next chapter!

We sat in the boardroom with an amazing view of the city. Harry arranged for a gourmet breakfast and hoped you would change your mind. He was set on going with you. You sat across from me - dissecting me with those Caribbean sea coloured eyes. Your hands were folded before you. I'm not sure you heard a word Harry said. You requested that everyone but Harry leave for five minutes. I have no idea what you said to him, but Harry was singing a different tune when we filed in back in. I gave you a questioning glance, but your eyes were steeled on Harry. After the contracts were signed - the ones that specifically stated that I was the only agent to 'handle' you, you leaned across the table to wrap a strong hand around mine. 

 

"I look forward to working with you, John." Your eyes sparkled. With a nod, you were gone. 

 

I have no idea why you chose me over Harry and his years of experience. He's made several careers while I'm still fairly wet behind the ears. I'm nothing compared to Harry. Why would you want that? I left the office that afternoon with my brain churning to give Claudia the bad news.

 

"Why do you have to go?" Claudia asks over take away on her coffee table. 

 

 

"It's a big step, opening an office. I'm the boss. I'll be in charge," I say. 

 

She shoots me a look. "We both know that's not true. Harry will always pull the strings. I thought he was keen on going."

 

I rub my head. "He was keen on it. Sherlock Holmes was not keen on working with Harry."

 

"So Harry caved to the whims of an actor?" Claudia blinks. 

 

"He's a big deal." I shrug.

 

"In England. Over here, he's nothing!" Claudia paces.

 

"That's about to change." I move to her. "Come on, you still have a flat there. You can visit. I'm not giving up my place here. I'll just be splitting my time between New York and London, that's all."

 

She sighs. "Our schedules are hard enough to coordinate." She takes a deep breath. "He wanted you?"

 

"If you had a choice between Harry and I, who would you choose?" I offer her my most winning smile. 

 

"I hate this," she pouts. "When do you leave?"

 

"In two weeks. I leave with Sally." I press my forehead to hers. 

 

"So quickly?" 

 

I nod. "Sherlock has a busy schedule."

 

"Christ. I guess we better make these two weeks count." She draws my mouth onto hers. 

 

 

Two weeks later, Sally Donovan and I stand in front of two hotel doors with large suitcases behind us. The musty smell hit my nose the moment I walk up to the front door. Plaster cracked across the walls on the lobby. I could smell the must raise up from the faded uniforms the porters wore as he led us down stained carpet hallways. 

 

The rooms are equipped with a lumpy full sized bed and a built-in desk. Not exactly great for an office. Sally's room is even smaller - so small that she had to back into her toilet. First thing tomorrow, I am going to call Harry about our arrangements. 

 

"If I wasn't so desperate to get out of New York, I'd be on the first flight back," Sally says. 

 

I take a deep breath. "This is good. This is ours. A new start for both of us. But I'm definitely having words with Harry about putting us up in a no-tell hotel.

 

"They have hourly rates, I bet." Sally muses. 

 

"Wonderful." I mutter. 

 

My phone buzzes with a new text message. 

 

You and your assistant will join me for dinner at Les Deux Salons at 8pm tonight - SH

 

Sally looks over. "From Harry?"

 

"SH?" I ponder, then it comes to me. "Sherlock….we're having dinner with him tonight, it appears."

 

"He's a bit weird, that one," Sally says. 

 

"He's different." I search the name of the restaurant.

 

Five star French restaurant. Harry will have a stroke when he sees where I have to wine and dine our new client. 

 

"Are you going to talk to Harry about our accommodations?" she asks. Sure, she didn't fly across an ocean to live in a crack hotel. 

 

I rub the back of my neck. "Tomorrow. I'll ring him tomorrow." I know my pleas will fall on death ears. At least I can let him know I'm not pleased.

 

 

We are shown to a cozy table by a rustic stone fireplace. Each table is dimly lit by candles and graced with a single lily.

"Mr. Holmes will be along," the host says. 

Sally looks around. "Well isn't he forcing his hand making us take him to a posh place like this."

"Maybe so, but right now he's our only client here. He knows that and is taking full advantage." I haven't been on English soil for 24 hours yet, and I miss Claudia desperately. I make my living by leading artists. I feel like I'm being played by you and I don't like it. 

With your eyes on fire, you cut through the room like a blade through flesh. People raise their eyes to watch you pass. There are whispers and nervous tittering. You pay no mind. Your eyes are fixed on me, most likely to unnerve me. It's kind of working, I'll admit.

In your wake is a mousy woman entirely dressed in pastels. She provides a sharp contrast to your expensive tailored suit. You're so put together, I wonder if you've come straight from a photoshoot. 

As you approach, I feel compelled to stand. Beside me, Sally scrambles to her feet.

A warm smile spreads across your etched face. "John." Your fingers wrap around mine and give me a small squeeze.

"Sherlock," I smile. "Thank you for suggesting we dine here."

You give an appreciative glance around. "This is my favourite place."

Your taste is expensive, I want to say. I substitute exquisite instead.

"I'm John." I extend my hand to the mousy girl I have a feeling you were not going to introduce.

"Molly Hooper," she says. "I'm his PA."

And clearly in love with her boss judging by her adoring glances. Of course you would employ someone who adores you so you can treat her however you like and she will endure it just to be near you.

"Nice to meet you." I shake her hand. "This is my assistant, Sally Donovan..."

 

"So John," you interrupt while taking a seat beside me. "What are your plans?"

"Um, well tomorrow we're looking at our new office space," I say.

"No, for me." Your eyes stare me down.

"Oh, I have your itinerary here. You begin shooting a new season of your show. You have two movies coming out soon, meaning press junkets and tours." I refer to my phone. Harry made certain I had your upcoming schedule. 

Your hands steeple under your chin. "Do you have any thoughts on my path?"

"Considering that two weeks ago my life was in New York, I have no thoughts on career trajectory. Not yet."

"That's fair. Molly will be delivering a box filled with scripts I've been sent. We can begin there. But now, I have the most exquisite bottle of wine coming." You bury those chilling eyes behind your menu.

Sally raises an eyebrow in my direction.

"One more thing. I saw where you are staying. I'm going to venture that Harry arranged the 'hotel', hm?" You cock your head. 

"Bloody right," Sally grumbles. 

"As we dine, your things are being moved to the Hyatt Regency." You nod to the waiter as he presents the wine. 

"I'm sorry, but what?" I lean forward.

You lean on your elbow and into my space. "Was I not clear? I can't have you stay at what is essentially a students hostel. Harry should be ashamed of himself. No, it is my desire to have you at the Hyatt."

"Why?" I swear this day cannot get more bizarre, but it is only half eight. 

"I live at 221 Baker Street and the Hyatt is very close. In order to foster a healthy working relationship, having you near it most beneficial." You take an appreciative sniff at the wine. "That's extraordinary. Bring another bottle."

"Harry will have a stroke," I offer. 

Under the table, Sally kicks me.

"Why would he care? He's not paying for it." You shrug.

"Wait, are you?" I squint. 

A wicked smile crosses your insanely full lips. I mean, Julia Roberts must be jealous.

"I didn't become an actor because I need the money. You'll stay as my guest. I don't take no for answer." You lean back, thus ending the conversation on the matter. 

Though you order dinner, you don't eat much. Instead, you dissect me with your eyes as you push your duck around the plate. You watch how I cut my meat and the order in which I eat my vegetables. You found my ordering a simple steak boring. You only speak to me, ignoring Molly and Sally. I can tell this annoys Sally, but Molly is used to it. Your phone buzzes a few times. You roll your eyes when you glance at the screen. Eventually, you hand it to Molly and instruct her to 'deal with Greg'. 

I try to steer the conversation towards your past roles. I spent the last two weeks watching everything - from television shows to bit parts. I want to discuss what you want, where you see your career going. 

"There will be plenty of time for work later, John. Tonight is about getting to know each other," you state. 

"Okay, so tell me about your personal life since I will be guarding your secrets." I lean back in my chair. 

"What have you read?" You push your plate away. No wonder you are rail thin.

"There's not much. It appears that you don't have a personal life. I can't trace a girlfriend in the last five years. You briefly dated Irene Adler, the stage actress."

You cringe. "She'd loathe to hear you say that."

"What, that you dated?" I ask.

"No, the stage actress. Irene's career didn't take off like it should have. She was too picky and found herself above many things."

"You don't seem like to compromised much. There's no cheesy rom-com's in your past."

"The integrity is there in my work. I had to take a lesser role at times." You motion for the waiter. "Irene refused unless she received top billing. That hurt her in the end." 

"Is that what broke you up?" I had seen photos of Irene. She was equally beautiful and scary - much like you. 

You sigh. "We were never serious. And what ended our affair was boredom and work. Work will always come first. I have no time for relationships that are not beneficial to my career."

"That's romantic," I utter. 

Your eyes flick to me coldly. "That is my life."

Okay, point taken. "So, any dark secrets about you that I should know about?"

You smirk. "Not yet, John."

The waiter drops the check along with my stomach. I take a deep breath before reaching for it. I only hope that I have enough to cover it. You swat my hand away.

"I chose the place. You are not paying," you say. You toss a few hundred on the table and stand. "Let's get you settled at the Hyatt."

Molly is sent home in a taxi while Sally and I are ushered into your limo. I'm a bit surprised when you get out at the hotel, determined to check us in. 

"Maybe he's not all bad," Sally muses beside me.

"It's a bit odd and I know there will be backlash from Harry when he finds out." This was a no win situation. If I turn you down, it starts our relationship on a rocky note. However, Harry will be mortified that he's been shown up by the talent. 

"There. Your room keys. I suspect you will be buying in town?" You hand us the keycards.

"Yes, eventually." I nod.

"I will have my real estate agent contact you. We can look for flats tomorrow."

I raise my eyebrows. "We?"

"You've been gone for some years. I know the best neighborhoods." You place your hand on my shoulder and turn to Sally. "Your things are waiting for you. John, come. Let's have a drink."

                               *     *    *    *

I raise the glass to my lips and look around the quiet yet opulent bar. "What's going on here, Sherlock?"

You quirk an eyebrow. "After dinner drinks?"

 

 

"I mean me being here. Why are you so keen to have me over the far more competent Harry?" I lean forward.

The corner of your mouth twitches, your eyes settle on my mouth.

"You sell yourself short John. I have a feeling you are more than just competent. I think you will surprise yourself over the next year." Your tone is predatory and a bit condescending

"I know nothing about you apart from what I've read." I sigh.

You close your eyes. "What have you read?"

"You're a bit of a nightmare." 

"That might be an over simplification. I don't suffer fools. That's why you are here." You give me another one of your impaling stares.

"Sherlock, I have to be honest. I don't want to be here."

You nod and caress your lips. "Yes, I know that. You are desperate to return home to your girlfriend."

"Of course. Who wouldn't want to be with the people they love?" 

"John, I care about the work. You should too since that's all you have when all the lovers have left. And they will." You wave your hand dismissively. "She will, eventually."

I shift uncomfortably like I've been discovered without trousers. A shiver shoots down my spine.

"Let's talk about work. My personal life is off limits." I swallow the rest of my drink defiantly.

You take a deep breath. "What could be more personal than you guarding and guiding my public persona and career?"

I shake my head with a laugh. "I really doubt that you allow yourself to be guided by anyone. I think I'm here to nod my head and hold your elbow at press junkets and premieres."

You wink. "I'll give you more than that." 

Wonderful. I've traded in one puppet master for another then.

Your face pulls from amused to serious. "Honestly John, I do believe that you have something to offer. You don't suffer fools either, and I need that. Despite your relationship with your brother, you are not a 'yes' man. I know you've picked provocative projects for your clients and I want a challenge. Are you up for one as well?"

 

 

Your hand extends towards me. I feel as though I'm about to shake hands with the devil, and I've never been more ready for the ride. 


	3. In This House That I Call Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock helps John settle into London. John opens Sherlock to a new project

**Sherlock**

 

It’s perfect. Twenty foot ceilings leading to the second floor. One large master bedroom and two large bedrooms. A kitchen that would be the envy of any cook - perfect for entertaining. A balcony of teak and stone. Large windows with an amazing view of London. I only wish I was purchasing this for myself.

"You should take it," I state.

Your mouth hangs open at the grandness of this flat. “Harry would literally die.”

"I’m guessing that he would be using this as well when he comes to visit. I take him for a man that enjoys nice things." I turn to you.

 

 

"Yes, for himself - not for me," you murmur.

"John." I step closer. "You want to impress a new level of clientele. Yes, your offices are lovely. You need an equally impressive home to present." I sit on the black leather sofa. "And it comes furnished. You won’t have time to go shopping let alone hire someone to do it. This is tastefully decorated." I eye your jumper, shirt and tie combination. "Judging on how you dress yourself, you should not be responsible for a flat this magnificent."

You snort. “Thank you for that.”

I lean back and tip my head to look at the large fan above me. “Now, this is a place I can spend time in.”

"Are you buying this or am I?" You cross your arms in front of your chest. 

"You are, but I will be here." I cross my legs.

"Were you like this with your last agent?" you ask.

"My last agent was an idiot. I tried to help him. In the end, it was best to end the relationship." I scowl.

Victor had been a big disappointment in regards to being an agent. It was easy to push him around. I embarrassed him, frustrated him and nearly cost him his marriage with his demands. He had no backbone for this industry. I need someone with fight to them - like you.

You cock your head. “How much time do you think you’ll be spending here?”

 

 

"We are working together. It won’t be in my flat. I want to come to a place that is worthy and comfortable." I shrug. I know my opinion is too new to really matter. "Think of how Claudia will love it."

The wheels in your head turn. You can see yourself cooking for her in the kitchen. Maybe drinking wine on the patio. Having sex with her in the huge shower. 

"John, when have you ever done something for you? You stated that you don’t want to even be here. At least don’t short change yourself on your home."

You pass papers that afternoon. 

* * * * 

You are three steps behind me as I walk to my trailer. “If you really want to meet them, then go ahead.”

You want to meet the cast, the director, my hairdresser and all the boring people that circulate around me. Once again - boring. You smile easily and extend your hand. You make the fools smile and laugh. You are unassuming and non-threatening. I tap my foot impatiently, just wanting to get on with it already. I don’t come here to socialize, I want to work. In a week’s time, we will be boarding a plane to New York to weather our first premiere together. Greg is happy to let your take the reigns and NOT travel with me. 

While you chat, perhaps looking for new clients, I cannot help feeling oddly peaceful. Just a glance sets my nerves to rest. My shoulders relax watching the muscles in your arms flex with every hand you shake. Your smile seems genuine and easy. Fascinating, but why do I find it fascinating?

I lead you to my embarrassingly large trailer with a living room, bedroom and small galley.

"You seem to be doing rather well." You cast a gaze at the flat screen television. "Did your prior agent broker this for you?"

"No, I did."

"Of course you did."

 

 

Molly is highlighting the script changes. My hairdresser and stylist are milling about. In fact, there are far too may people in here.

"Everyone, get out!" I say. "I need to look over the script changes."

They scamper to gather their things before making a hasty exit. You shrug and move to follow. 

I grab your arm. “Not you. You can stay.”

 

 

"Um, okay." You sit on the sofa. 

"What’s my schedule look like?" I glance over the highlighted text.

You pull out your iPad. “Tomorrow, you have an interview with Radio Times ahead of the release of Seconds Matter. The Guardian interview is the day after tomorrow.”

"Did you get the scripts Molly sent?" I ask.

"I did. I’ve put them into two piles. Hell Yes and Hell No."

I smirk. “There’s no ‘Maybe’ pile?”

Your eyes take me a little off guard. “I have a feeling there is really no ‘maybe’ with you.”

My smile widens. “And you wonder why I preferred you to your brother.”

Your hands fold on your lap. “You just need to tell me if you want to look in the Yes pile for your next project and what exactly interests you.”

There is a voice in my head that nags at me. One word springs to mind and I squash it to the back of my mind again. I have spent the last ten years concentrating on this one thing. I cannot have your strong hands and floppy blonde hair just unravel me like that. 

"You will have to be more specific." However, I cannot resist the urge to test the envelope before I push it.

"Do you want more television? Several American producers are eager to have you jump ship for their shows. HBO is looking at new series and someone dropped your name. There are films. I read one script about a corrupt politician that has a bit of a turn-around. Another dealing with a man who discovers he has Parkinson’s and turns to drugs. Oscar material."

"The last one sounds promising." I shrug.

You tap your fingers on your knee. You’re holding back. 

"There’s something else." I look up.

"There is one project that’s quite different." You scratch your ear and your eyes dart around the trailer. You’re nervous to share the details. 

"Tell me about it." I sit back in my chair to give you my undivided attention.

You take a deep breath. I watch your hands rub your thighs. It’s a little more than distracting. “There has been talk about turning the musical Once into a movie.”

I cock my head. “It is a movie.”

"Yes, but not the Broadway musical." You lean forward.

I steeple my hands under my chin. “You want me to do a musical? I’ve done Richard III, and you want me to consider a musical?”

 

 

Your fear is palpable. You think you’ve made a serious miscalculation in your first task. Quickly, you recover. Your back straightens and chest puffs out a little. And what a marvelous chest it is. It’s hard to tell under the ugly jumper. Luckily, it is a bit old and has shrunk a little from too many washes. 

"I want you to consider it. I want you to watch the movie. When we go to New York next week, I’ll set it up for you to get tickets to the show. Just go in with an open mind."

"You don’t even know if I can sing," I say.

You smile. “Do you not recall being in a musical at uni?”

"How did you get your hands on that?" My stomach flips.

"I have my ways." You suppress a smile. "And you can sing."

 

 

I watch hold your ground. Your blue eyes challenging me. I wave my hand. “Fine. I will have Molly send the movie to your flat. We’ll watch it tonight.”

"We?" You raise your eyebrows.

"Yes, we. You suggested I give your ridiculous idea credence. We’ll order take away and watch your silly film."

"Um, okay then." You are equally defeated and victorious at the same time.

"Now, leave me alone. I need to learn these new lines, and you are distracting." I bury my face in the script. 

"Uh, okay." Dazed, you scramble to your feet.

"I will you see you this evening." 

After you leave, I ring Molly. “Tell them I’m ready. And we are not to run over. I have plans tonight.”


	4. Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is Slowly Falling....

**Sherlock**

You answer the door in jeans and a fitted t-shirt. My eyes pause on your defined torso. Just transport, I sigh inwardly. 

"John." I push past you.

"Welcome," you sigh and close the door behind you. 

"Nice of you to dress like a vagrant." I strip off my suit jacket. 

"It's movie and take away." You shrug.

My ego winces. "I took the liberty of calling ahead to have Chinese delivered. Lo mein, Kung Pao Chicken and spring rolls."

You shake your head incredulously. "And what will i be drinking tonight?"

"You have some beer and not much else in your refrigerator. I am wagering that you will have at least two bottles."

You plop down on your sofa. "Incredible. You chastise me for not thinking for myself. Yet you have told me where to live, what to eat, and told me that my wardrobe is crap. Give me one reason why I shouldn't tell both you and Harry to fuck off."

I fight the smile creeping on my lips. You have a fire deep inside. God, I just want to unleash your full fury for just one night. "John, I apologise." I sit beside you. "You won't tell me to bugger off because I'm the most exciting thing to happen to you whether you want to believe it or not. You could have stayed in the soft cocoon of New York, but you are here. You have the opportunity to shape my career. Clearly you have my attention. I'm here to watch your movie, aren't I?"

 

You nod. "I suppose so."

"I'm not the easiest to work with, but I will not disappoint. Now, did the movie arrive?" I roll up my shirtsleeves and unbutton the second button of my shirt. 

You nod toward the telly. "Should we wait until the food arrives before starting?"

"Certainly." I settle back. "Tell me, how did you meet Claudia?"

"A party. Mutual friends. Typical story." A small smile rests on your lips. 

"Sounds very passionate." I yawn.

"It is." You frown defensively. "Might not have been a firework start, but that's overrated."

"Dull." I tuck my hands behind my head.

"I know. I've read that you find relationships of any kind tedious." 

I open my mouth to expound my thoughts on 'relationships'.

The front door buzzes. We stare at one another. It buzzes a second time. You shrug and look to the door. I just stare at you. You went the gym before I came over. The hair on the back of your neck is still damp from a shower. You smell like some cheap overly male scented body wash that you also use on your hair. 

"You ordered it," you say.

"It's your flat." I close my eyes.

"Amazing." I hear you shuffle to the door. " I gather that I'm paying as well."

There is low murmuring as you chat with the delivery person. You plop the bags on the coffee table. I hear you move to the kitchen. I open my eyes and begin to unpack cartons.

"You want a beer?" You call.

"Sure." 

You return with paper plates and two bottles of ale. "Smells good."

"Would I steer you wrong?" I ask.

"Jury is still out on that." You pile a plate with rice, chicken and a spring roll. 

We eat through the opening credits. Before it really starts, you clean up our dinner and fetch two more bottles of beer.

You tip your bottle to me. "Cheers to you doing this film."

"You are feeling quite confident," I muse. You smile, the beer providing a social lubricant. I have to admit that I find it incredibly attractive. 

I find myself enraptured in the story and the music. I vaguely remembered when it was lauded for its honesty and starkness. Halfway through the film, you stretch your legs out on the coffee table. I remove my shoes and do the same. While the story is intoxicating, I cannot help but steal glances in your direction. I watch you place the bottle between your lips to take a sip. Your eyes blink rapidly when the emotion of the movie reaches you. Your hand curls on your thigh and your breath deepens. I think for a brief moment of what it could be like if you leaned closer. The ale on your hot breath. Strong hands on my chest. Deep voice rumbling in my ear. 

I snap my attention back to the movie. I hate to admit that it is painfully beautiful. Is it the movie itself or your reaction to it? And why should that even be taken into account when choosing a role? Your opinion on this should not matter considering I've only known you for a handful of days. However, this is where I wanted you to be. 

"Well?" you ask as the credits roll. 

"I'd be very interested in seeing the musical before I make any kind of decision on this." I stretch. 

"It isn't a 'no'." You are pleased. 

I hear Falling Slowly creeping its way into my mind palace, my one sanctity. I feel tired and need to think. The movie, your scent, the hitch in your breathing at the end of the movie. I need to think and focus again. 

I stand. "I'm going to bed."

You look up suddenly. "Oh, okay then."

"Which room shall I take?" I ask.

"I'm sorry, what?" You blink.

 

"It's late. I sent my car away and don't feel like waiting for a taxi. I'm going to lie down in one of your guest rooms. Unless you are going to give up your master bedroom for me. If you insist, I will."

"No, you aren't taking my room!" You scramble to your feet. "You don't leave that far from here."

"You would send me out there knowing I could have a stalker just waiting to follow me home?" I ask.

Your face falls. One hand rubs your forehead. "I am not going to argue with you now. You have an early day, and at least I know you'll be punctual. Take the room to the left."

"You should get some rest too," I call over my shoulder as I climb the stairs to the second level. I peer down on you as I make my way to the larger of the two guest rooms. You are muttering you yourself incredulously. It's so adorable, my chest clenches. 

 


	5. Falling slowly, eyes that know me And I can't go back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John forgets Sherlock stayed over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had this in drafts....and we all know what happens to that. I almost lost it - and almost forgot I wrote this chapter. I think it was the beginning of the next part which now is much longer - so here it is. A mini episode.

John

I watch you climb the stairs of my flat. You cast one last gaze down to me before disappearing behind the door of my guest room. Did that really just happen? I thought Claudia would be my first houseguest. I shake my head and begin to gather the empty bottles and take away containers.

In less than a week, you have infiltrated my life. I sit in a flat you told me to buy. Tomorrow afternoon, I have an appointment with your tailor. You intruded on my evening call with Claudia. You took up too much space on my sofa. Now you are sleeping in my guest room. I’m sure that you will demand that I make you breakfast.

Yet, there is something oddly comforting in your presence. It’s as if we’ve been working together for years and not just mere weeks. It pleased me that you enjoyed the movie. There were no rude comments once the opening credits rolled. I heard your breath hitch at poignant moments. Sure, by the end of the film you were practically sprawled across the entire sofa, forcing me to a chair.

I send Claudia a message that I was working tonight, but I’d ring tomorrow. I guess tonight was work in some respect. As I pass the guest room, I hear you muttering. Are you on the phone? The door isn’t completely closed, and I see the lump on the bed. It appears you do a fair amount of talking in your sleep. And you aren’t quiet about it. I hear your mutterings through my wall into the wee hours of the morning.

The sun streams across my face earlier than I like. I must remember to get proper blackout blinds. I stare at the ceiling and slip my hand across my stomach to tend to the morning erection. Claudia’s dark hair and eyes float in front of my eyelids. She wears a purple lace bra as she rides me - head tossed back. She calls my name, tells me how good I feel. My name falls from her lips over and over. It’s deep from ecstasy. Deeper than usual. Your voice slices through her beautiful mouth. My eyes snap open as I envision your head on her body. Fuck!

 

 

I had completely forgotten you were here. Tossing the covers back, my cock aches with frustration. No way I can finish myself off right now. I slam into my the bathroom for a shower and a quick wank. I replace Claudia with scarlet Johansen and Charlize Theron who with their combined efforts on each other and me, manage to finish me off quickly. I still feel a bit off when I get dressed in jeans and fresh t-shirt.

"There you are!" You exclaim as I descend the stairs. I’m not prepared for how I am greeted. My robe is loosely tied around your hips. So loosely than the deep V plunges past your navel. You are naked in my robe.

 

 

"That’s my robe, Sherlock," I manage to choke out.

"Robe?" You affect a harsh American accent. "On this side of the Atlantic, it’s a dressing gown. How long have you been in the colonies?"

"Oh I’m sure they’d be loathed to be called that. Best not to do that in an interview. You will quickly offend your growing fan base," I huff.

You bring a coffee mug to your lips. “Feel better after your morning shower?” An eyebrow raises with amusement.

"We need to get to the set. You should get dressed," I say.

"I made coffee," you pout.

 

 

I bite my lip to squelch my annoyance. “Thank you.”

"You’re welcome. We’ll need to stop by my place for a shower," you say as you take the stairs.

The tone of your voice makes me look up from checking the messages on my phone. You’ve already slipped inside the extra room.

Publish

 


	6. On the National Express there's a jolly hostess...selling crisps and tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long flight to America

John

"I'm a huge fan," Shirley Rogers gushes as she scrambles into your trailer. 

A forced smile tugs at your lips. "Thank you so much." Your voice is hollow. I know you'd rather learn a full ten pages of new dialogue than be interviewed. 

"This is John and he will be staying." You inform her. 

 

Wonderful. I give you a withering glance, silently begging for release. Instead, you look to the sofa where I should sit. It's like getting ready to watch a lamb be slaughtered. I've never refer to the press as lambs, far from it. However this Shirley is enamoured with you and I know how you can be. In the last week, you've made three people cry. 

A strange thing occurs. For a awful as I think you'll be - you are the opposite. You smile and joke. You feign humility. The only time you darken slightly is when Shirley broaches the subject of your love life. Your lips draw to a straight line and you look to me. 

"I'm sorry - that's all the time we have today. I'm sorry." I stand to usher poor Shirley out. 

"Who were you?" I ask when she's gone.

You smile. "Just a different side of myself."

"I wish I'd see Mr. Charming more often,"I mutter just loud enough for you to hear. 

You've requested that I be plastered to your side since I set foot in London. Now I see why you suggested I take a furnished flat since I really would have no time for decorating. I've left Sally in charge of meeting new clients since I don't get a moment to breathe with you. It's all fine though. I'll be heading back to New York for a bit and will get to see Claudia. That puts a spring in my step and smile on my face. 

 

I'm late to the airport. A meeting with Colin Firth has gone late and I'm running through Heathrow. My phone keeps buzzing in my pocket. I know it's you sending a plethora of increasingly frantic texts. You are already seated in your luxurious leather seat in first class. I show my ticket to the flight attendant as I make my way to business economy. We look like shuttled cattle on this level. Even the shortest of people have their knees pressed to their chest. 

I shove my carry-on over my head and struggle to get to my seat. Eyer roll around me, and it's like sitting next you. You are one level up sipping champagne with a warm towel to clean your hands. I have crisps stored in my pocket for later so I can avoid the mystery meat they will try to serve me later. I heard you have a choice of lamb or salmon. 

I look at my phone before I dutifully turn it off. 25 text messages. Jesus. I don't bother to look at them but send a response.

 

I'm on the plane - JW

 

Across the aisle, an attractive blonde smiles sweetly. "Bit of a rush, eh?"

I nod sheepishly. While I miss Claudia with every bone and hormone in my body, a bit of flirting never hurt. I 'know this suit you made me wear doesn't hurt in my stock. 

"Meeting ran late. You know how it goes…."

"I guess I do. Travel much?" she asks.

"I go between London and New York, mostly." I turn off my mobile ready for seven hours of mild flirtation and hopefully, some sleep. 

"I'm visiting family. Those bloody ex-pats." Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. 

"Shh, I was one of them until recently." I tease. "I was in New York for the last few years but have relocated back home."

She leans into the small aisle. "What is it that you do?"

"I'm a talent agent. Your know, press and all that." This is when I love my job. 

"Represent anyone I know?" 

"I'm headed to New York for a premiere. Heard of Sherlock Holmes?" I ask.

Her eyes light up. If I were single, I could score a number with this information. 

"Yes I have. I love that program. He's a bit if a dish, isn't he?" she purrs.

I shrug. "I wouldn't really know. He seems to have a strong female following."

"Is he as smart as his character?" she asks.

"I'd say a bit smarter, truthfully." I want to say what a bloody handful you are, but as a press agent I know that kind of information can be used maliciously. Miranda, as she introduces herself, has lost her focus on me and is prattling on about you. She maintains some flirtatious manners, now hoping to get an introduction. I can tell she's wondering if you are on this very flight.

"Excuse me," a tall flight attendant approaches. "But there's been a mistake Mr. Watson."

"I'm sorry?" I really hope my luggage made it on the plane. 

"With your seat," she says. 

I pull my ticket from my pocket. "Am I in the wrong row?" My heart starts to pound. I know you were surely toss a fit if I am not on this flight. I had wanted to go a day earlier to set everything up, but you insisted that I have dinner with you last night to go over your schedule - yet again.

"Yes sir. You are in the wrong section." 

"Good God, what's left after this? Cargo?" I ask.

"You've been moved to first class, sir," she answers coolly. 

"What? I…?" 

Miranda's eyes light up. "Oh, he's on the plane….."

I should have known you would do something like this. I bow to Miranda and gather my things to follow the attendant up the stairs to the posh world of first class. 

I'm led to the last row where you sit one leg crossed over the other and gaze out the window. I thank the attendant as sheathes my things and offers a warm towel. 

"You didn't have to do this," I say as I take my seat beside you.

"You would have known sooner if you bothered to answer your phone. I had a drink ready for you in the lounge," you snap. 

I blush. "My meeting ran late."

You slide your chilly gaze to me. "Meeting?"

 

"Yes, with Colin. you know, Firth? He's interested in new representation." I smile. 

"And you almost missed this flight." You turn back to the grounds crew loading the plane. 

"Do I hear jealousy in your voice?" I ask amused. 

"Jealous of that old washed up hag?" you snort.

"You mean Oscar nominated old hag?" 

Eyes on fire, they are back on me. "Our arrangement is meant to be exclusive. I'm to be first priority. That is the deal that was agreed upon."

"That's why I made the appointment this morning. We had no plans and I am still here to build our clientele in London and Europe." I explain. 

"I'm not jealous." You cross your arms in front of your chest defiantly. "That's a idiotic notion."

"Fine." I concede.

You might not want to admit it, but I know that yellow tinged trait when I hear and see it. You hate not being the center of the world. I make note that I should keep you far from Claudia while in the city.

"You've been flirting," you say.

"What?" I frown. "How could possibly know that?"

"Mild colour in your cheeks. Stupid grin on your face. I can smell the pheromones rolling off you." You wrinkle your nose.

"You are a strange man." I settle back in my seat. 

 

Five minutes, I am ready to leave first class to go to cargo. Nothing pleases you. We take too long for take-off. You hate having to stow your mobile away. The drinks don't come fast enough. The plush chair is lumpy and we should have flown Virgin Atlantic. It never ends. You ask me to go over your schedule again and again. You've tried to fill every minute of our time there. I put my foot down when you try take over my evening with Claudia. 

 "Are you staying in your flat there?" You ask over dinner.

 "No, I am subletting that. I'll stay with Claudia."

 You frown. "Where does she live?"

 "In Soho." You just stare at me. "Downtown."

"And I'm?" 

"You are midtown by Times Square. It's closer to the theaters and my office."

"Is she far from that?" you ask, concern slipping in your voice.

I shrug and tuck into my salmon. This is so much better than whatever downstairs is having. Poor Miranda.

"What if I need you? I thought we'd be in the same hotel." Your voice goes up to an octave I didn't think possible.

"My God, are you pouting?" I ask, a grin threatening to break across my face.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm being practical. I am a stranger in a strange city. What if I require assistance?" You look pointedly at me.

"That's what a concierge is for."

You don't seem convinced.

"I'm a short taxi trip away. It will all be fine." I pat your arm.

Even after dinner, you don't stop talking. The fantasy of reading my book evaporates. I notice pauses in conversation. During a quiet stretch, I glance over. Oh thank God. Your head is tilted back, eyes closed. If it weren't for the slightly opened mouth and steady and deep breathing, I would think you were faking it.

I pull my book out but I can't focus on the words. You exhaust me. I wonder if this is what it feels like to have a toddler. The constant talking and pouting - never ending. With a yawn, I tuck the book by my side and close my eyes. 

When I wake, my shoulder is sore and feels heavy. The sound of breathing is rather close. I open one eye and glance down at a mess of dark curls on my shoulder. Sure, now I'm your pillow. I'm not sure what to do. If I stay here, my shoulder will hurt and we'll definitely draw some raised eyebrows if people saw. But if I do wake you, I will have to endure the rest of the flight with you awake. 

I sit still for the moment. I have to admit that your hair smells delicious. I should get Claudia the same shampoo.

Panic fills me as the flight attendant moves down the aisle. She catches a glimpse of us, and a strange smile creeps on her face. Shit. As someone in public relations and your personal agent I know this is not good - at all. I roll my shoulder to shake you off. You mumble and dig in closer. Funny, I never took you for a cuddler. I clear my throat and do it again. 

You groan. "What John?"

"You, umm, were sleeping on me." I rub my shoulder.

"You woke me for that?" You grumble.

I nod towards the flight attendant who now has her back to us.

You frown. "I do not care what a stewardess thinks."

"You should. It's this kind of thing that finds its way into tabloids. My job to make sure that doesn't occur," I say pointedly. "And they prefer flight attendant."

"Hmm." You muse.

"What?"

"I never took you for homophobic, that's all," you wave your hand dismissively.

 

"Those are serious allegations, first. I'm just doing my job and protecting your image." My teeth clench.

"Would my image be tarnished if I was a homosexual?" You raise an eyebrow.

"No...." I stammer. For a moment I wonder if I missed something. In my research of you, you have had only female companions in the past. Had I missed something? "But if that's something you are planning to do, I should know about it."

Your body, not just your head, turns to me. "I need to notify you if I'm about to embark on sexual relations with a man? Or is it anyone? Do I get the same courtesy in regards to you?"

My head spins with your rapid fire questions. 

"No, I didn't mean that," I fumble for my meaning. "Just, and I'd say this to any client, if you are going to make a statement about your sexual preference, I-I should know about it so I can manage the PR around it."

"I am NOT any client." You glare angrily. "And if I am going to make a sexual statement, you will be the first to know about it, John."

The way you punctuate your last sentence with my name is unsettling. I can feel my neck burn in embarrassment. 

"I didn't mean to offend." I feel like a scolded child.

Your eyes give me an appraising sweep.I endure several minutes under your gaze.

"No, I apologise. You are just trying to do your job. I hate that there are ramifications for something as trivial as who you want to bed. I've had friends who have been impacted by such."

I nod slowly. We are quiet for a moment.

"I had no idea you had friends," I say quietly.

From the corner of my eye, I see the corner of your mouth tug upward into a smirk. A chuckle escapes from you. 

"Not many that would have me anymore. I don't do personal relationships. They get messy and just complicate the work." You look out the window. 

That makes me feel sad for you. Do you really need close yourself off to focus? There is an air of melancholy whirling around you.

"Do you see yourself doing more than acting?" I ask to change the subject. 

"I don't simply act, John. I create characters and bring life to the written word. A writer puts extreme trust in me that I will respect their creation." You snap.

"I meant directing. Every actor gets bitten by the director bug." 

You raise both eyebrows. "Can you imagine me directing?"

 

I shudder. "Good point."

Though you are awake, your mood has shifted from cranky to almost playful. Like a toddler, you just needed a nap to brighten your disposition.


	7. Paint the world anew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is New York ready for Sherlock Holmes?

 

SH

To my surprise, you follow Molly’s directive to book the Grande Suite at the Four Seasons. After making certain that I’m pleased with my accommodations, you whisk me out to dinner at a rather exclusive steak house. I find your company entirely pleasing. We laugh easily. You are quite witty once your guard drops. Yet you scold me when I am a bit too snappish with the waiter. I even acquiesce to sign a few autographs. 

 

"Fans can make or break you, Sherlock," you warn. 

 

 

 

  
I snort derisively, but enjoy your smug grin. In the dim lighting, your features soften. Even your scowl feels warm. 

  
I somehow convince you to join me for a late night scotch in my room. We lounge on my terrace gazing at the starless sky. Your booming echo rings across the city. The aged scotch loosens your muscles and lips. You tell me how you stumbled into this life of servitude to creative types like me.

  
"What did you want?" I ask wishing to God that I had a cigarette.

 

 

 

 

  
"Nah, you’ll take the piss." With each sip, your native tongue becomes more apparent. 

  
"I will not laugh." I vow.

  
You look over hesitantly.

  
"I promise." I raise my hand.

  
"I wanted to be a vet. Y’know, take care of animals," you say dreamily.

  
"Dog shit was better than a red carpet?" I cock an eyebrow.

  
"Depends who you’re walking down it," you offer. "I was young when I wanted that. School was expensive though. Harry sucked up most of the family fund for Cambridge. He was meant to be a barrister. Wound up in entertainment." You take another hearty sip.

  
"So what happened to you, doctor?" I lean closer.

  
You pat your leg. “Went in the army. They were going to pay for me to be a proper doctor. Can you believe it takes less time to learn how to fix a human than a mongrel? Funny that is.”

  
"What happened to your leg?" I ask.

  
"Ever see Full Metal Jacket, Holmes?" Dead eyes look up into the blackness above.

  
No one calls me by my surname and lives to tell the tale. However, I grant you a pass. “I have.”

 

 

 

  
"Some men aren’t meant for war games. My mate Mike was one of them. Went a bit loony, he did. Starting shooting up the joint. I was one of the lucky ones." You rub your thigh absentmindedly.

  
"I remember when that happened." 

  
You roll your head to look at me. “Yeah, that ended my army career and bankroll to Dr. Watson.”

 

 

 

 

  
"Surely you receive compensation for that," I scoff.

  
"Not much. Barely enough for a cold water flat. So, I came to the Big Apple to work for big brother." You smile lopsidedly and raise your arms. "And here I am at your service."

  
Something burns in the pit of my stomach. I push it back, try to stamp it out. No complications. Nothing to distract from the work. 

  
"I believe you have found your true calling." 

  
"What, babysitting pompous actors?" you ask.

  
"Shepherding talent," I say honestly.

 

 

 

  
You accept that. “That sounds better, the way you put it.”

  
We sit in companionable silence. Sounds of the city drift up.

  
"Why do you act?" you ask after a few minutes.

  
"Escape." I answer simply and honestly. Before you can search more, I stand. "You can stay here tonight."

  
Your mouth hangs open in uncertainty. “Uhhh….”

  
I roll my eyes. “There is another bedroom.”

  
You are relieved and I wince at your aversion to what you thought I proposed. I can’t let my mind wander as to why that bothers me.

  
"I need to get to Claudia’s." You stand stiffly.

  
"It’s a bit late, don’t you think?" I glance at my watch. 

  
"Hopefully not." A sly smile breaks on your face.

  
Suddenly, I don’t want you to leave. “Another scotch? Something else?”

  
You stretch your arms over your head and give me a glimpse of your stomach - tan and taut. I quickly avert my eyes. In fact, you should leave. The scotch and wine are playing tricks on me. 

  
"No thanks. I don’t want to be late and useless," you smirk. You seem boneless as you clap my shoulder. "Thank you."

  
"For?"

  
"Being human for awhile." 

  
"Don’t get used to it." My throat feels dry and tight.

  
"Ha ha. Deal. Maybe you bring it out for me every so often, yes? A little reward for getting you an Oscar," you tease.

  
"Get me an Oscar and I’ll be more than human," my voice rumbles lowly.

 

 

 

 

  
"Okay. Goodnight, Holmes."

  
I don’t mind it so much when you call me that.

 

~~~~~

  
"Is Claudia 14?" My eyes drop to the purple bruise just below your collar.

  
"What?" You see my gaze and chuckle. "Oh, no. Just eager."

  
"I didn’t think anyone did that past secondary school," I say drily. 

  
"Young at heart." You wink.

 

 

 

  
"And mind." I turn my gaze out the window. 

  
Clearly Claudia forgave you for being tardy. While you sank into her, I tossed and turned in a ridiculously large bed. The stillness of my hotel room caused me to itch for stimuli. I attempted to read a script, but could not focus. I blamed jet lag, and had another whiskey and cigarette. Unbridled energy still hummed under my skin. For the first time in a long time, I considered the one thing that silences everything. Stupid. To let it cross my mind undermined everything I have worked towards. Instead, I clicked on the telly and ordered pornography. It was not as graphic as I’d like, but the moans - even fake - were enough to bring me to climax. I couldn’t help but think how you might be in a similar bliss, but with limbs tangled with someone else. 

  
"Is that okay?" You peer closer.

  
My attention snaps back to you. “What?”

  
"The lunch at the office. It’s fine, yes?" You ask.

  
"Yes, it’s fine." I sigh. "I gather that means I’ll have to suffer the company of your brother."

  
"Harry? Regrettably . Had we planned this trip last week, he’d still be on LA." You sound even more disappointed.

  
"How does one so insufferable become so successful?" I ponder.

  
"He knows how to stroke an ego." You cross your arms. The mere mention of Harry physically closes you off.

  
"I think it’s you. You connect with people, and you are good with recognizing promising work."

  
You look surprised. “Wow, thanks.”

 

 

 

 

  
"Self-deprecation does not suit you. You should think about your worth to this firm." I nod tersely. I don’t like that Harry mentally belittles you. 

  
I hear you swallow. “I will try to remember that.”

  
Harry is late getting to the office. Something having to do with the pregnant wife. You lead me to your modest office. The credenza behind your desk is covered with neat stacks of files. The desk itself is littered with more files, trade magazines and newspapers. You sigh when you see the mess.

  
"I have told them to make neat piles," you huff. "Sally knows my system."

  
"Sally is not here." I point out. "You could do with a bigger office."

  
You snort. “Like that will happen.” You shake your head. “I have London now.”

  
"It’s all yours." I hope to reach through the layers of self- doubt. I toss myself into the chair across from your desk. "Plus, your office there is magnificent compared to the closet your brother gave you."

  
You don’t look up from an open file but snort in agreement. My eyes wander around. One wall features a few televisions tuned into news channels and E! The other wall is a collection of framed photographs. I stand to peer closer. I see Meryl Streep and George Clooney. Some hip and famous musicians like Bruce Springsteen and Katy perry. Closer to your desk is a picture of you and pretty enough brunette. There’s nothing spectacular about her except the way you look at her.

  
"This must be Claudia," I say.

  
You look up and nod. “It is.”

 

 

 

  
"And how long has that gone on?" I keep my tone casual.

  
"Uh," you think. "A little over a year. You’ll meet her tonight."

  
"Splendid." I say.

  
You look pleased. “She wanted to meet the man who spirited me away.” 

  
"Of course. She wants to sure I’m taking good care of you." I smile and reclaim my seat. 

  
You tilt your head and visually question my choice of words. With a shake of your head, you sit. All I can see is your forehead and hair.

  
"For fucks sake," you push a pile out of the way. "That’s better." You smile and my insides curdle a fraction. "Let’s go over your revised schedule."

  
I lean my elbows on the desk. “Certainly.”

 

 


	8. Even Better Than the Real Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets an invitation he cannot refuse....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, something messed up with my update. Here is the real chapter 8. Since completing Sherlock as a Flatmate, I will continuing with this fic as well the follow-up to the Flatmate series. Thanks for being patient!

"I hope my little brother is treating you well." Harry claps you on the back. I hide my smirk as you roll his hand off you with clear annoyance.

"Quite. He's got quite an eye for scripts." You say pointedly.

Harry raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Really?"

"Obviously." You move to stand beside me. 

I can hear your skin crawl. All this socializing makes you uneasy at best. We've gone from a busy red carpet to this cocktail party for the movie. Your co-stars avoid you, but have nothing but praise for your role as a double-crossing MI6 agent. 

I feel a hand on my back. "I didn't expect you here."

I turn around. "Matt! Yes, I'm representing Sherlock Holmes now." I gesture to you.

"Great, great." Matt nods.

"My manners. Sherlock, Matt Damon." I step aside.

You extend your hand with your most genuine smile. "Pleasure to meet you."

 

"I love your show. I normally don't get into supernatural stuff, but it's very well done." Matt gushes. 

Your cheeks actually flush. "Thank you very much. I enjoy most of your work as well."

Matt stutters for a moment, before laughing. "I heard you were honest."

You look as though you aren't sure what you said wrong. 

"No, it's good. Look, Ben and I are writing again. I'd love you to see it." Matt continues.

"We'd love to see it," I say. "I've been waiting for you two to write again."

 

 

"Family, work. It's hard to collaborate." Matt shrugs. He moves closer. "I have been considering a move."

I cock an eyebrow. "Agencies? I thought you loved Susan at CCA."

"She's great, but I want someone more daring. I've been thinking of starting my own production company. Like the Greenlight Project, but bigger." 

You inch closer. 

"I can talk to Harry. Andrew is out west." I offer.

"What about you?" He asks.

You go rigid beside me.

"I'm in London now. I have this git full time." I nod to you.

Matt looks to you. "How did you swing that?"

"Empire voted me the 'one to watch'," you state. "And I demanded him."

Matt looks startled by your words. "Must be nice to be loved." He playfully punches me.

"I'm there to open the Europe office as well. I took a meeting with Colin Firth before flying over." 

"Good luck. We'll do lunch next time I'm over." He looks to you. "Great to meet you, Sherlock."

You now politely. "Lovely to meet you as well."

It almost sounds sincere. Matt disappears back into the crowd.

"We need to work on your socialising skills." I grab two champagnes from a passing tray.

"Was I not pleasant?" You frown.

 

"Just barely. And A little odd. 'I demanded him'." I shake my head.

"Well, I did. That was the deal." You shrug 

"I feel a bit claimed." I say lowly.

I swear a see the quickest hint of a smile.

"Your skills are wanted. What you did just there. It was smooth, as if you didn't need to think about it." You tilt your head.

"That was just a conversation. But you need to have those to get roles. It's not just ability. People should like you." I point out.

"That's where you come in. You make me likable." You take a sip and wrinkle your nose. "This is awful."

"I make you likable? I'm not sure about that." I scoff. The conversation with Matt was not without awkwardness.

"You make me relax. I would have been positively surly without you." 

I've heard the rumours of your acidic tongue. You've taken apart supporting actresses in the past with an icy gaze. Yet, I haven't seen it. Maybe I am a kind of stabiliser. 

"John," I hear the purr in my ear.

I smile. "Claudia."

I turn to wrap my arms around her. She smells delicious tonight. Wait. That's not her with that spicy scent. No matter. Her lips are soft against mine. She hums into my mouth.

 

"Not here, sweetie." 

A sharp cough brings me back to the room. Your hands are clasped behind your back. 

"Sorry." I giggle. Yes, I actually giggle. "Sherlock, this is Claudia."

"So you're the one to steal him away." She teases.

The corner of your mouth twitches. "I guess that I am." Your hand extends.

"It's sort of nice to meet you." She cuddles into my side. "Take care of him, okay?"

Your eyes snap to me. "Certainly."

"Maybe we'll be in a movie together and then I can spend time with him." She coos.

"Wouldn't that be something." However your voice is flat. 

"How long have you been here?" She turns her attention to me.

"Roughly an hour. An hour too long for this one." I wink to you.

You give a disinterested half-shrug. 

Claudia looks to her watch. "Want to get out of here?"

In her voice is the promise of sex. "Yes, very much so." But there's you. 

"Go on, John." You sigh. "I can manage my way home."

"Are you sure?" I wrap my hand around Claudia's.

You give me a stiff nod. "Yes. I'm fine." 

"I'll see you tomorrow." I pat your arm.

 

Something in your face makes me look over my shoulder as Claudia leads me away. Your hands are clasped in front of you. Your eyes dart around the room like an abandoned child. I see true vulnerability on your face for the very first time. You chew on your bottom lip as you search for a lifeline.

I stop. "You know what, I should go back."

Claudia's frown is deep. "Why?"

I gesture to you. "He doesn't know anyone here. I mean, just Harry. I can't do that to him. He could be my biggest client."

"Really?" She pouts.

"I'll see you later?"I kiss her cheek.

"I guess." She's disappointed, but she doesn't see the loneliness I see in you. 

"Love you. You're the best." I give her hand a squeeze and head over to you.

"Forget something? Do you need a condom?" You ask.

 

"What? Are you carrying?" Not sure why that should surprise me.

Your eyes narrow. "Does that shock you?"

"You just seemed...." I am not getting out of this.

"Seemed what, John?" Now you are amused.

"Not interested in the whole thing." I say.

"Romantic entanglements, yes. I have no interest in that. However, sometimes you need release." You raise an eyebrow.

It sounds incredibly sensual when you say it.

"Well, I don't need a condom. I decided to stay."

Your head whips in my direction. "Why? She clearly wanted release."

"I'll get that later." I wave.

"Not likely if you left her to spend time with me." You slide your hands in your pocket.

"Doesn't matter. I'm yours tonight." 

 

You give an appraising side-glance. "Yours?"

I rub my hands together. "What trouble should we get up to?"

For the first time all evening, I see a genuine smile. It's really lovely when it happens. And so rare it's like spotting a butterfly in winter.

"Oh, I'm sure we can find plenty."

 

As I try to think of any place that wouldn't bore you, Harry appears out of thin air. "Was that Claudia I saw?" 

"Yes. She just left." I groan inwardly. We weren't quick enough.

"You are a lucky bastard." Harry sighs. "She's a catch." His eyes search for her retreating form. 

"Decent actress." Harry continues.

"How is your wife? She's about five months along, yes?" You ask.

"Yes she is. How do you know?" Harry steps back.

"Black magic." You look at your phone.

Harry looks to me for an acceptable answer. "He just knows things."

"I see things. In your office you have a framed ultrasound photo with the date stamped on it. It's not difficult to do math." You don't even glance up as your fingers dance over the screen.

"Incredible." I smile.

"Really?" You stop to look at me. "People usually don't care for my observations."

"No? It never ceases to amaze me." Granted, I'm not sure if I want that microscopic view into my world.

You hold your gaze a few moments more as if trying to solve a puzzle in my face. "You are the first. I usually have expletives tossed at me."

Harry clears his throat to make his presence known. "Are you coming this weekend?"

I look at him blankly. We have Jimmy Fallon tomorrow and the Today show next week.

"The Hamptons! The beach house." Harry slings an arm around you. I swear I can hear your brain crack at the contact.

"Beach house?" You say it as if it's a foreign word you've never heard or spoken.

The beach house. Harry's little slice of extravagance. Harry is not only a talent agent giant, but a savvy real estate mogul. He loves to invite impressive people to his seven bedroom, five bathroom beach house. Truthfully, it's lovely. Tons of light and just steps to the ocean.

"Yes, I have a wonderful place by the ocean. It's supposed to be stifling in the city this weekend. You have to see it." Harry beams.

You glance over. "Do I have to see it?" 

"It's a nice place." I nod. I'm not sure which will be more difficult, entertaining you in the city or by the sea.

"I have no 'beach' clothes," you say.

"We can get you some." Harry interrupts. Why is he so keen to get you there?

You bite your lips as your eyes sweep over me. I can we you calculating the benefits of this trip versus staying in the city. A strange smile spreads across your face.

"Sure. Why not?" 

Harry claps your back hard enough to cause you to wince. "Then it's settled."

"Are you sure?" I lean closer. "You don't have to."

Your eyes narrow as you sneer. "I know I don't have to." Your back straighten me and there is that smile again. "I get to see John Watson in his natural environment. This could be most useful."

I cock my head. "Useful?"

"Yes, for us to forge a trusting professional bond." You wink.

I don't dwell on the fact that my skin prickles at your words. 


	9. Diamonds in his Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins to notice things about Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very, very short. It was unplanned but I had to get it out. It's an appetizer for a bigger chapter to come

John

Your fingers twitch behind your back as you rock on your heels. I catch you taking a glance at yourself in the mirror. When the hairdresser fussed with your curls, you flinched. The desire to swat her away burned in your icy eyes. Now you are transfixed by the television in the green room.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" I lean towards you.

 

 

"I loathe talk shows." You sneer.

"At least it’s not Letterman. That one’s gone a bit senile." I glance around the green room. You are the second guest. Jennifer Garner is being adorable as the first guest. Jimmy Fallon has convinced her to play beer pong on camera, and it’s real beer.

"I’ve seen you be charming. That’s all you need to be." I say reassuringly.

"I know I can be charming. When I want to be that is." You take a long look at me. "Not enough time to shave?"

Oh, my shadow. “Not this morning.” Claudia was asleep last night, but is an early riser.

"It suits you. Scruffs you up a bit." Your voice drops to that purr that puts me a little on edge. 

 

 

I cock my head. “You’re doing it now, that charming thing, eh?”

Your mouth twitches to a glimpse of a smile. “It’s working, is it not?”

I say nothing and turn my attention to the screen overhead. I don’t realise that I rub my bristly cheek.

There is a loud chorus of women hollering and screaming as you stride across the stage. One hand salutes your cheering throng as you flash them a smile to melt silk and cotton knickers alike. Taking your seat, your head ducks humbly. However, you feel every bit entitled to the cat calls and “woos”. Long legs cross over each other and long fingers thread together over your lap. One hand slides over one thigh to tuck underneath. Beside me, a page sighs audibly as she gazes at you. 

 

The last few days have really brought one thing into sharper focus. Your fan following is growing and they are rabid. I never gave a second thought to your appeal or looks. You aren’t a traditional movie star like George Clooney or everyone’s latest dish, Tatum Channing. But I guess I could see the attraction with flawless skin, full lips always turned to a sardonic smile, and the cheekbones most women would kill for. I had read that it was the kaleidoscope blue eyes set against the dark curls. Then there is the voice. No one is prepared for that when you part those lips to speak. 

 

 

Dear God, what has gotten into me? I’m just trying to see what I can exploit to send your stardom through the stratosphere. 

As I suspected, you are witty, wry and charming. Not at all like the insufferable arsehole you can be. Jimmy laughs lightly with you - he’s a big fan. And you like him. Your rigid spine relaxes a little. You lean towards him and laugh genuinely. 

You saunter off the stage with your head held high.

"How was that John?" 

"The next time you tell me you hate talk shows, I won’t believe you." I lead you back the green room to clear off that make-up.


	10. When You're a Jet....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John brings Sherlock to the beach house

Sherlock

 

This place is a ridiculous show of status. For all its white wood, high ceilings and impressive technology, there is no air conditioning. Harry informs me that is this summers project. Does little to help me now.

It was a restless night of kicking sheets off and the quiet of the ocean. My lullaby is the groan of the city with horns and distant sirens. Though the ocean crashes right outside my window, the sound leaves me unsettled. 

I’m also in your bed. Harry has given me your room as a guest room. Aside from his, it’s the nicest bedroom in the house. It juts out from great room with its own bathroom. Harry tells me it was meant to be his, but his wife didn’t like being on sea level. Instead, he converted the top floor of the three story house into their suite. This private room became yours. I try not to imagine you tangled up in the sheets of this king sized bed. Or standing in the teal shower. On the dresser, a photo of you and Claudia stares at me all night long.

 

 

You are somewhere in the house, relegated to a lesser room for the weekend. I shut my brain off from entertaining a world in which you share this bed with me. I blame the heat. Perhaps the beginning stages of heat stroke. I have gone many years without intrusive thoughts like these. My methods for silencing them is not an option. But our close proximity is not making it easy.

Voices float in from the main house. I pluck my watch from the night stand. It is a little after nine. Harry’s unmistakable boom drowns out everyone. A robust coffee smell rouses me from the bed. 

"Pancakes?" I hear your cheery voice call out. If you are up, then so am I.

"Ah, good morning." Harry looks up from the entertainment pages. "I see your beach clothes fit."

My beach clothes are hideous and I loathe every minute I am in them. If not for the sauna-like atmosphere, I would be in something more fitting. However, I am standing in black swim shorts and light blue polo specifically purchased for me. 

Your head whips around. “Morning.” You wave a spatula. “Pancake or will you take the blood of virgins?” 

"Just coffee for now." My eyes wash over you also in swim trunks. You have the most fabulous calves I’ve seen. They are taut leading to sculpted thighs. The kitchen gets warmer.

"Is it always this tropical?" I feel sweat bead along my brow.

"Not always. Some summers are rainy and chilly. This is an usually warm spell." Harry offers.

I will say that relaxed Harry is easier to tolerate than city Harry.

A short woman with a small belly pads into the kitchen. “You must be Sherlock.”

I nod and offer my hand. “Thank you for opening your lovely home to me.”

"I’m Claire. And thank you for taking on John. I was very nervous about moving in my condition." She smiles warmly.

"It would have been fine." Harry doesn’t even look up.

"Claire, your pancakes are done." You hold up a plate stacked with golden brown discs. 

"Bless you." She tousles your hair fondly. "John will make a good husband. He always takes care of me."

Your cheeks turn a shade of pink. “You are my favourite sister in law.”

Playfully, she slaps your arm. “I’m your only.”

"Andrew has girlfriends. I like you best." You turn to me. "Pancake?"

Truthfully, the thought appalls me. However, your expectant eyes and smile win me over.

"I’d love some." 

I cradle the mug in my hands as I watch you pour perfect circles of batter on to a hot griddle. 

"It’s all about patience." You glance at me. "Harry flips too soon and makes a mess."

Behind us, Harry grumbles.

"Meanwhile, I know how long each side should take." You smile to yourself.

"Wonderful, you’ve mastered pancakes." Harry sets his paper on the table. "I hope my brother doesn’t bore you with his drivel all the time."

The smile slips off your face so fast I can almost hear it. An emotion bubbles up inside me that I barely recognise - protection, then anger.

"I find John very fascinating. Perhaps if you talked with him and not down to him, you would understand." My tone is casual and pragmatic. I cannot show that I am bothered by his treatment of you.

Harry’s eyebrow knit together in a rage he cannot show. I’m the talent after all. If he’s brought me to here to impress me, he’s not about to take me to task for my words.

"I’m sorry John. I didn’t mean to belittle you." He doesn’t mask his insincerity. 

Your eyes haven’t left me. “It’s fine. Really.” You clear your throat. “How many would you like?”

I feel my eyes soften. “As many as you have to offer.”

"That’s more than I’ve ever seen you eat." You protest with a smirk.

"The ocean air makes me hungry." I move to the table to sit beside Claire.

I don’t like the fluttering inside my chest. I know my gaze lingers on you longer than it should. So long, I have placed blinders on to just see the work. To immerse myself in another world to make all the noise around me quiet. Just me and my character having a conversation and trying on one another’s skin. Then came the day in the cafe. Since then, I feel that control slipping through my fingers like warm sand. You standing in the kitchen while humming over breakfast food. The sun picks up some faint greys in the nest of blonde hair. Perhaps staying in the city would have been safer.

While I’m deep in my mind, you have placed a plate containing two large pancakes before me. 

"Let’s start with two." Your smile sends a shock of warmth into my belly. You settle across from me to butter your own stack.

Harry frowns. “Where are mine?”

"Batter and griddle are over there." You wink to me.

 

 

"Oh Christ." He grumbles as he grabs a box of dry cereal instead.

"I heard you killed it at Fallon." Harry says.

"He was bloody brilliant." You beam.

That is not a blush making my cheeks sting.

"Of course I was." 

"You can be an unpleasant arsehole when you want. It’s brilliant when you are charming." You point your folk at me.

"John!" Harry bristles. "We don’t talk to clients like that."

You looks as though slapped.

"I appreciate his honesty, Harry. The world is lousy with leeches and ego-massagers. His bluntness is invigorating." I give Harry my full attention so that he is very clear to leave you alone.

Harry looks from me to you and back. “Good. My only concern is your happiness with my firm.”

"I’m quite satisfied, Harry. Thank you." I return to my breakfast. "Do you have jam, Claire?"

"Yes. Strawberry and black cherry." 

"I’d love some black cherry." I say.

You stare at me without blinking. “Jam, right. Coming up.”

 

 

"No one has ever done that," you stare out at the ocean.

"Had jam with pancakes?" I glance up.

"Taken Harry to task over the way he regards me." You swing your feet over the lounge chair to rest your elbows on your knees. 

"Your brother Andrew says nothing?" I turn my head. The smell of coconut sun lotion and your sweat has my head reeling.

"He’s the youngest. He cares about how many models he can shag." You chuckle.

"Are you like him? Notches on a bedpost?" I put down my script.

 

 

 

"No. Not at all. I’m a serial monogamist. One woman for me." You smile. 

"Hmmm." That’s right. Claudia.

"Thank you. You probably did it because you don’t like Harry. I don’t care why you did it. Thank you." You rest back on the lounger with you phone.

"I spoke the truth. He underestimates you. Like this script you implored me to read. I’d have never chosen it, but it’s quite good. I find myself hungry for the role and prepared to whatever it takes for it to be mine." I gesture to the newest David O Russell screenplay.

"Tenacious?" The corner of your mouth twitches to a slight grin.

"When it’s something I want, of course I am. Shouldn’t we all be like that? People are far too timid." 

"There’s nothing wrong in going after what you want as long as no one else gets hurt." You shrug.

"John, there is pain every day. If you don’t go after what you desire, someone else will take it. That’s life." It’s my turn to lean forward in my lounger.

"That’s why you are as successful as you are. You have to put yourself above everyone else." 

"Exactly. Don’t tell me you didn’t," I say haughtily.

"When?" You frown.

"Coming to London." I nod.

"I didn’t want that. You and Harry decided that. I was happy in New York." You snap.

"You tell yourself that, but you wanted a place to call your own. You loved that you won over Harry. Harry wanted me, but I wanted you. You think it every time he takes the opportunity to belittle or insult you. If staying in New York with little Claudia was truly what you wanted, you would still be here. You wanted the power and you took it no matter the cost to your relationship with her." 

Your cheeks are flushed in anger and shame for my calling you out on a basic desire. My shirt clings to my back in the oppressive late morning sun. In one fluid motion, I strip off my shirt. Your eyes flick away to give me privacy. Interesting. 

Your shoulders sag. “You might be right. I was bloody proud when you chose me. I want London for my own. To have it be my success a part from Harry.” You speak in a hushed tone.

"You will, John. I have no doubt what we can achieve." I close my eyes. 

"We?" I hear the amusement in your voice.

"Of course, this is a two way street. You elevate me while I guide you. We work together." A partnership not just agent and talent.

"You better put some lotion on before you burn that alabaster skin of yours." You tut. 

"I guess we can’t all be graced with your golden skin tone." I grab the bottle from the side table that separates our chairs. 

As I begin the task of rubbing lotion to my chest and arms, is that a blush on your cheeks? Is it just the sun or the heat? I move in slow circles. I would hate to miss a spot. You bury your face in a different script that you say is not for me. 

When I’m done with what I can reach, I poke you with the bottle. “Can you get my back?” 

"Ah…" There is a quick glance around you. "Sure."

I feel a large blob of lotion land between my shoulders. Hastily, you cover my back in a thick coating of the coconut lotion. 

"There." You wipe your hands on a towel. 

"John? Can you attempt to work it in? I look like I’ve been frosted." I turn my head to raise an eyebrow.

"Oh right. Sure." 

Strong hands knead into my skin. This was a mistake. I force my mind to a neutral place as to avoid any reaction to your touch. It’s agonizingly slow. I close my eyes and force myself into the memory room in my mind. This reminds me why detachment from people is crucial. The faces of those who hurt, disappointed or maligned me hang here as a memento.

"Do you need me to do you?" My voice is lower than I intended.

"What?" You ask.

"Your back. You must need lotion on your back." I take the bottle from your hands.

You sit back. “No, I burn easily so the shirt stays on.”

I cock my head to stare at the golden tone your arms have from this morning alone. “No you don’t. There is some Mediterranean in your family blood that just toasts you in the sun.”

"Well, skin cancer runs in my family." You mumble.

I’m about to delve deeper. There’s something more and you long to tell me.

"Hello, is there room for more?" A shrill voice sings.

"Christ." You mumble but scramble to your feet. "Lydia!"

I don’t move but watch you greet a familiar face. Long legs and honey hair framing ridiculous cheekbones stare past you to me. Ah yes. Fashion week in Paris. 

"Andrew must be with you." You plaster a smile on.

"He’s bringing the bags up." She still stares at me. 

"Oh Lydia." You take her cue. "This is Sherlock. This is Lydia." You motion to her.

I extend my hand half heartedly but do not stand. “I saw you in Paris”

She brightens. “Oh really?”

"Yes. Gucci is losing its edge." I return to my pages. 

"Cheyenne is with me." She announces.

"Oh, that’s nice." Your attempt at excitement falls flat.

I see her gesture to me and raise her eyebrows.

"Ooh, I don’t know," you say.

"Pssh. It’s Cheyenne. She begged to come." Lydia flips her hair and disappears in the house.

You sink back to the lounger. “I’m sorry. I thought this would be a quiet weekend and we could get some work done. Andrew has rolled in with his tweaked out harem.”

"Tweaked?" I lick my lips.

"They’ve been know to roll." You hiss lowly. "Harry told Andrew he’d turn them out of they brought it here."

That is probably a good idea. 

"A sound decision from Harry. That shows some character." I set the script into my satchel.

"Before Claire, he’d been known to." You lean over to speak in my ear. "If a client insists, he will take a little. Has to uphold relationships."

I purse my lips and count to ten. “Do you?” I hope my voice doesn’t sound as husky as I hear it.

Your straighten. “No. It eats at your brain and soul. I’ve seen people die for it and homes be wrecked. It’s not glamourous or chic.”

"No it’s not." I stand. "Join me for a swim?"

You contemplate for a second before your body pivots towards the house. “I should help everyone settle in. Maybe later.” 

I shrug nonchalantly. “Suit yourself.”

I stride across the burning sand to the water. I need to stretch my muscles and feel my lungs burn to not want things I shouldn’t.

 

The deck is crowded with more bodies when I am walking up the beach. Two lanky women in scant bikinis and the tall brother I recall as Andrew. Harry and Claire have joined them. 

"Sherlock!" Andrew calls to me.

I nod politely. You are nowhere to be found.

"How are you enjoying the Hamptons?" He offers me a bottle of beer.

"It’s fine." I wave my hand and gesture to my water.

"You’ve met Lydia." He gestures to blonde I met earlier. Beside her is a brunette with dark eyes. "This Cheyenne."

I nod while taking a long sip of my water.

"How’s the water?" She smiles revealing bright white teeth.

"Cold." 

It did little to clear the noise in my head, truthfully. 

"Must have been refreshing on such a hot day." She lowers long eyelashes.

"Indeed it was." I look for you. I’m cursing your existence for leaving me out here with these people.

"He’s on a call inside. Some of his clients had a hard time parting with him." Andrew explains. "He’s talking someone down from quitting the new Bill Condon movie."

I return to my lounger to wait for you. Cheyenne has claimed yours to sit beside me. I sigh deeply. Was this Harry or Andrews idea to offer a model to me this weekend? They have no idea who they are dealing with - clearly.

Eventually, Cheyenne bores of trying to engage me in conversation. Harry is happy to entertain her to the dismay of Claire. She touches her round belly and watches the shapely models flit about the deck garnering her husbands attention. 

"You look warm. Would you like a drink?" I stand.

She fans herself. “Yes, thank you.”

I’m happy to leave the scene. 

You sit at the kitchen island with a laptop open plucking away at the keyboard.

"Have you been hiding in here?" I ask.

You look up guiltily. “I was working. I secured tickets to Once when we get back to the city.”

I smirk. “You still want me to see it?”

"Of course." You narrow your eyes as you give me a once over. "Granted, I’m not sure it’s right for you.

I frown. “Why? You were convinced enough to make me sit through the movie.”

"You enjoyed the movie." You counter.

Because you enjoyed it. “It wasn’t bad.”

"How was the water?" You close the laptop.

"A bit cold but warmer than home. Refreshing on this oppressive day. Do you swim?"

"I’m not a strong swimmer." You shrug. Our gaze holds for a moment. "But I’m sure the heat will drive me to it."

"Why are you wearing t-shirt?" My eyes take an appreciative sweep across your torso. You can’t think you aren’t fit enough.

You turn away. “I burn easily. Beer?” You open the refrigerator.

I shake my head. “That’s not it exactly. You were practically bronzed when we met. You are soaking that shirt with your sweat.”

You sigh. “Fine, if it means that much.” 

In one fluid motion, you pull your shirt over your head. You turn so fast that I barely have a moment to take in taut muscles of your chest and abdomen. Those hideous jumpers hide all that, and it’s a shame - really. I notice a small dark pink scar on your back, on the shoulder. Without pause, my fingers brush against the raised skin.

"What’s this?" I know what it looks like. I’m sure I’m correct in my deduction.

You stiffen under my touch. 

"It’s just an adolescent scuffle," you say.

"My brother was in a street gang, Sherlock." Harry says behind us.

The top of your ears turn crimson. I drop my hand but don’t take my eyes of you. 

"Berk got himself shot." Harry huffs.

I cock my head. “Street gang? Like Sharks and Jets?”

You meet my gaze with a smirk. “Exactly, but without the romance and singing.”

I chuckle lightly. “An agent and a bodyguard?”

"Clearly, I’m not that tough." The entry wound is more impressive than the exit hole - a white star of raised scar tissue.

"Took a bullet? That’s plenty tough." 

"Still want to work with a reformed hooligan?" You hand me a beer.

"I hope you’re not that reformed." I lean in close and you hold your breath. Our bare shoulders brush quickly as I reach for a bottle of water. "For Claire."

"Yeah, she needs to keep hydrated." You murmur and move away to find a bottle opener. 

"Thought we’d do a bonfire tonight." Harry says. "It’s supposed to cool down later."

"Toasted marshmallows and sing-alongs too?" You grin cheekily at your brother.

He rolls his eyes and returns to the deck.

"Sorry, I’m annoyed by the models." You grumble and hand me a beer.

I turn it over in my hand to look at the label. I am not a beer, ale or stout drinker. I am wine, gin and scotch. It looks different from the English ales I know and the American beers I loathe. Taking a small sip, it is crisp and spicy with notes of citrus and pepper.

"Why are we here?" I ask.

You shrug. “I thought it’d be fun. I love the beach. You know, a relaxing weekend of reading scripts and offers before we get back to the grind. We have the photoshoot then home. Then it’s back to the set for you.”

"So this was a mini break?" I grin.

"Yes, without the couples massage." You grab the water from me. "Let’s get this to Claire."

I watch you push into the sunlight. “Too bad, I would have enjoyed that.” 

I’m not sure if you heard me.


	11. The lightning in me, strikes relentless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swimming in thunderstorms

JOHN

I gaze over the table feeling fuzzy on the edges. The afternoon beers have become bottles of wine. Across the table, you barely feign interest in Cheyenne with her impossibly long eyelashes and hair flips. She wants you though. She licks her lips as if you are something to devour. If you give her a chance, she’d be under the table in a second, ready suck the life out of you.

 

 

I guess I couldn’t blame any woman for wanting that. The pressed Sherlock is gone and replaced by a Sherlock with sun-tinged nose and cheeks. You wear loose fitting tan linen pants and a short-sleeved white button down shirt than exposed tanned taut arms. Those normally tamed curls have been tousled masterfully by the sea breeze. Yes, I can see why Cheyenne would drop to her knees.

I rub my eyes. Christ, I need to get laid. I can recognize a handsome man. It’s my job to capitalize those features. Waxing poetic? No.

Truthfully, I’m in a full sulk. I had hoped for a quiet weekend of going over scripts and getting to know a relaxed Sherlock. You’ve dragged me to all your favourite places in London - brandy bars, exclusive restaurants. Here was my turf. For once, I would feel on even ground a little. We could have a nice weekend before the madness starts again next week with a photo-shoot and your last two weeks of filming the series. Then Andrew had to sweep in with the shrieking Lydia and sexually charged Cheyenne.

"Are you enjoying London?" Claire asks. She always feels left out in these gatherings. Before marrying Harry, she had a respectable theatre career. Traveling with him has taken a toll on her ability to land the juicer Broadway roles.

"It’s good. Nice to have something that’s mine." I smile. "I have a lot of meetings when we return."

"Oh,  you and Sherlock." She nods thoughtfully. "He’s nicer than I thought he’d be."

I chuckle. “He suffers no fools, that’s for sure.”

"He seems to be suffering Cheyenne pretty well."

Her chair is pulled flush to yours. I’m mesmerized by her leaning closer in conversation. You nod and say very little. She licks her lips again. It’s clear her hand has dropped to your knee.

 

 

Across the dirty dishes, through Lydia’s guffaw, your eyes find mine. Your stare stutters my brain for a moment. Cheyenne is talking, but your gaze stays on me. A question has been asked. She wants to walk the beach with you - get some fresh air. She’ll suggest a swim and probably fuck you in the water with her legs wrapped around that impossibly slim waist of yours. You’ll come back with those full lips swollen from being sucked on and bitten.

The room feels oppressively stuffy despite the sea breeze blowing in from the deck. With a hint of a smirk, you push away from the table. Cheyenne looks up expectantly. You pick up your dirty dish.

"We should help Claire clean up, John." Somehow you make that sound sensual.

I can’t help my grin when Cheyenne’s face falls. She opens her mouth to protest. After all, the beach is waiting for you.

"You are right, Sherlock." I stand and gather the dirty plates.

"Oh, you don’t have to." Claire protests.

"Nonsense. You cooked a wonderful meal." You give her a wink that causes her to blush.

 

 

 

Cheyenne mutters something as you lean close to get her plate. You speak in her ear. A smile spreads slowly. Perhaps after the dishes. Or you’ll just go to her room and shag her there. Wonderful,  I know how loud she is. I hope you go to her room as you’re sleeping in my bed.

Suddenly, her eyes darken and the smile fades in the blink of an eye. She flips her hair and offers a cold shoulder. I bite my lips to prevent a wide grin.

"Do you want to wash or dry?" You lean against the sink.

"You choose. You are the guest." I shrug. I feel myself beaming which is odd. Why do I care of you shag one of Andrew’s harem? I just would be disappointed because you seem to have better taste than that.

"Since you know where things live, I’ll wash." You turn on the faucet.

We settle into a rhythm side by side. Harry makes a halfhearted attempt to take over for you. He’s halfway in the great room before you finish your decline. Claire stays in the kitchen to put away left-over food. Playfully, you flick a little foam at me. I snap the towel at you. You toss some more foam in my hair. I make contact with the towel on your pert arse. Your eyes widen.

"I’m sorry. I got carried away." I blush furiously.

"Mr. Watson, I see you have a kinky side." You purr.

"No, I was just messing like you were a mate." I stammer.

"Are we not mates?" You frown. There is enough whimsy on your face to wonder if you’re taking the piss.

"Oh course. I just had some wine…" I am sounding like a fool. You are trying to make light of it and I’m yammering idiotically.

Your hands rest on my shoulder. “John, breathe. I am teasing you. I am not offended.”

A dollop of soap suds falls on my nose and chest. We look at one another before bursting into chuckles.

"Let’s finish." I nudge you. "I bet they are watching first run movies in the other room."

"Actually, do you fancy a walk on the beach? It’s a bit loud in there." That’s a bite to Lydia’s cackle.

"Uh, sure." I shrug. I know you aren’t social so it’s all fine.

You pluck a bottle of barely decent prosecco from the fridge. “I’ll bring refreshments.”

After the dishes are done, I pull on some track pants. We leave our shoes behind as we pad down the deck stairs to the cooling sand. You wince.

"The sand loses its heat quickly." I lead you to the shoreline. Rolling up my pants, I step in the lapping waves. "The water is like bath water."

You roll up your trouser legs. Your toes wiggle in the soft sand as the water rushes to your ankles.

"Bet a swim would be divine." Your shirt exposes your flat stomach as your stretch your arms over your head.

I see lightning dance in the distance. “Is that heat lightning or a storm?”

"There is no such thing as heat lightning, John. That is a storm hundreds of miles away." You correct me.

"If we’re going to swim, now is the time. That could be coming our way." I suggest.

You walk further up the beach. Taking you cue, I follow. Swimming at night can be dangerous. No need to have the talent drown or be shocked by lightning on my watch. You strip off your shirt and toss it to the sand. In one movement, both trousers and pants are at your ankles. I am thankful for the hazy moonless sky. Sure, I’ve been around loads of naked men. I go to a gym for god’s sake. Yet, I’ve never seen one look like you.

"Are you joining me?" You have no issue with being on display.

And why should you? There is not an ounce of fat on you. Smooth skin stretches across sculpted by God muscles. You practically glow. It’s like you aren’t male or human, even.

"Uh, yeah. Go ahead. I’ll be right in." Hopefully you will be swimming when I disrobe.

You wait for a second but sense my discomfort. With a grin, you stride off towards the water. I turn my back as I undress. I hear your body hit the water, then silence. I slip off my track pants. My fingers slip under the waistband of my pants. Two men skinny dipping - that raises eyebrows. My hand skims the soft flesh around my middle. I’m not ready to be naked. I feel cowardly as I run into the water after you.

Underwater, I hear movement and splashing. You’ve gone out farther than I’m comfortable with. The water is ink black, but I see you bob above the waterline.

"It is like bath water." You wipe your face.

"Much warmer than the south coast of England." I offer.

You swim beside me. I jump when I feel fingers graze my hip. “You kept your pants on?”

You sound almost disappointed. Once again, I’m thankful for the dark clouds obscuring the moonlight.

"I don’t want my willy to nibbled by sea life." I joke.

"Have you tried it?" Your voice raises gooseflesh that I will blame on the breeze.

We swim and splash for a bit. Sometimes, you get too close. You swim under me and tug my leg. I try to do the same to you and realise you can see more than you know under the water. I don’t attempt it again. The sound of thunder gets a little closer.

"We should try to dry off a bit before that rolls in." I suggest.

You wrap your arms around me to dunk me one last time. I shiver as your skin slides against mine. What the hell is wrong with me? Shit, I need to get to Claudia the moment we are back in New York.

I push you away and make a break for the shoreline. I wish I had thought to bring towels. I also wonder about my logic to swim in my pants as water cascades down my legs. I look to my sandy track pants and wonder my options. Over my shoulder, I see you still playing merman and floating in the ocean. Quickly, I pull my sopping pants off to put my dry track pants on. Of course, the move is not as fluid as I like. My wet pants get tangled in my legs. I struggle with the dry pants over my damp skin. And I’m pretty sure you get a show as I stumble about.

You, on the other hand, emerge from the water like Neptune himself - shaking water from your dark curls. I turn away to give you unwanted privacy and to clear my foggy head. Once dressed, you plop on the sand and take a long pull from the bottle of wine.

"So John, tell me about your time in a gang." You rest your elbows on your knees and look up at me.

I shrug. “What’s there to know?”

"Everything."

I sit beside you and grab the bottle from you.

"I was bored. Dad worked two jobs - one in a solicitor’s office and at night in a factory. Mum was a nurse. As you can tell, Harry was the oldest and in charge. Andrew was the golden boy. I was the bad seed." I take a decent gulp before handing the bottle to you. "My mates were always a bit rough. And as we got older we found trouble. Mostly petty theft. Minor breaking and entering. We didn’t like it when you crossed us or trespassed on our territory. Same with the birds. You didn’t dare look at our girls."

It had been an exciting time. I felt in control no matter what went on at home. I was regarded and feared.

"Did you get into fights a lot?" You lean back on your arms.

"Sometimes."

"Do you have more scars than the bullet wound?"

I nod. “I have a knife wound in my thigh and on my hip. Mum was not pleased.” I shake my head. “Nor dad.”

"What made that stop?" You ask.

I swallow hard and blink rapidly. “The day I got shot. It was a bad row with another neighbourhood gang. I only had a knife. Some of them had guns. A few of us got shot. Petey was one of them.” My voice catches. I feel you move closer. “He was shot twice. Once in the stomach and the neck. Bled out in the street and in my arms.” I rub my eyes. “There was so much blood. I was soaked with mine, his. I couldn’t get the smell out of my nose - that coppery tinge. My family was wrecked. Mum was a mess when she saw my wound. Even Harry was worried. I had a choice. Focus on my studies or be turned over to the judicial system. I could serve time and ruin any chance of a life.”

"Clearly you chose your studies." Your voice is almost tender.

 

 

"I wanted away from my family, so university seemed the best way." I turn to you. "That’s it. Now I’m here seeing to your needs."

You give me a glance. “Indeed.” You are contemplative for a minute. “It would seem that gunshot saved your life.”

I nod. “It probably did.”

You stare at the flashes in the distance over the waves.

"What about you?" I nudge you. "I know nothing about you."

Even in the dark, I see your smirk. “There’s a reason for that. Mystery breeds interest.”

"Come on. You heard my story. Give it up, Holmes." I grab the bottle from you.

You shrug. “It was wholly uninteresting. Upper class family. Mother did tea parties while Father did his secretaries. I was shipped to boarding school. I have one older brother who fancies himself very important in the British government.”

"That sounds interesting."

"I assure that it is not." Your voice chills.

"How do they feel about your success?"

"They don’t. I was meant for Oxford and a brilliant career in chemistry. I have an affinity for it. I still dabble in it from time to time." The bottle is nearly empty.

"So why acting?"

"I get to discover new lives. I can immerse myself into another person completely. I find the process very calming." You stretch your legs before you.

"Calming? I’ve met tons of actors and that’s a first." You are an odd duck.

"How do your parents feel about you not going to become a vet?" You wiggle your toes deeper in the sand.

"It wasn’t a real doctor. It was twice the school which they could not afford. That’s why I went into the army and you know how that turned out." Suddenly the story of my life bores me.

"You are fascinating, John Watson." You’ve turned to face me.

"Me? Hardly?" I snort.

I’m beaten down and up. I feel everyone one of my 37 years.

"One day you’ll see it."

Even in the dark, I can make out your features. You search my face for what feels like forever. The bottle of wine is empty but my mouth is dry. Your body tenses - I can’t tell if you are getting ready to move or trying to prevent it. I wish I could see more of that’s going on in your eyes.

A sudden flash of lightning starts us both. We laugh until we hear the thunder crack overhead.

"We should go." I scramble to my feet.

"Indeed." You follow quickly.

We start a brisk walk towards the house. After lighting strikes the water with a deafening hiss then crack, we sprint. I feel fat raindrops pelt at my back. My legs burn from running in the sand. As we reach the deck, the skies open with a wall of water pounding down.

We haul ourselves into the kitchen as another lighting strikes, illuminating everything like daylight. The rumble shakes the house.

"That was close." I struggle to catch my breath.

"Yes it was." But the grin on your face is brighter than lightning.

I brush the sand off my feet and pants. You shake your head like a dog pelting me with water. Playfully, I shove you. There is no sound coming from the great room. Everyone must have gone to bed. I remember that I’m in the guest room beside Cheyenne. She must be upset by that. If it were you, she could sneak in to seduce you. Wouldn’t be the first time she engaged in a nighttime attack.

"We should get to bed. I need to shower first. I’m covered in sand." I start for the stairs. I feel your eyes on me as if expecting something. Maybe it is more hope? My heart jumps. What would you hope?

You nod quickly. “A shower is an excellent idea.” You pause for a moment. “Goodnight John. Pleasant dreams.”

 

 

I watch you move through the great room to what was my room on the other side. I trudge upstairs feeling tired from the swim, the wine and the company.


	12. The Boys of Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bon fires, burnt marshmallows and volleyball games

Sherlock

 

I still smell the ocean after my shower. The sheets feel momentarily cool against my damp skin. I listen to the rain lashing the windows as lightening brightens the room. I imagine your body illuminated by the flashes as I hover over you. Sheets twisting beneath you as you writhe beneath me. Your skin would still be damp from the shower and from the sweat of desire. 

 

 

I jam my eyes shut so tightly that bright sparks appear. I want so much to creep up the stairs. Cheyenne would be the most receptive to a visit from me. I could easily bury myself in her to satisfy the need I have of you. It would be a mistake on several levels. Cheyenne is the type to fuck and talk willingly. I’ve kept my private life just that - private. I only choose people that understand discretion. It’s been years since I’ve even considered satisfying that base need. 

Your room is beside Cheyenne’s. You would most certainly hear us. That could either be a turn on or a deterrent. I know you are not homosexual in the traditional sense. If you’ve had a fleeting thought, you’ve buried deep inside. I know your gaze lingered. Your cheeks flushed when our skin brushed. Perhaps this ridiculous fantasy is not as improbable as I think.

My hand slides across my chest and over my stomach. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I’m in your bed. I will you to creep down the stairs and crack the door open. Your eyes wide with fear and lust. You pull down the sheet to reveal my erection. I curl my hand around the back of your neck to crush your mouth on mine. 

 

 

My hand wraps around my cock. I flip us over and kiss down your body to your flushed erection. I waste no time in swallowing you down to give you the best fellatio of your life. I let you thrust into my throat as you try to muffle your moans. My fingers slip past your scrotum to tease the puckered hole. You buck and gasp. You’ve never done that before. Your hands bury on my hair while muffled moans echo off the walls. You are close. I pull off quickly. Your eyes pop open in disappointment. Pulling myself up, I straddle your hips, carefully lining your cock with my entrance. 

"Shh." I press my fingers to your lips. "Trust me."

Wide-eyed, you watch me sink down on you. Your head drops back as I shift my hips to fuck you into the mattress. You moan my name. You’ve never felt this tight hit heat caressing you. I shift for you to hit my prostate and take my cock in my hand. 

 

 

"Allow me." Your hand covers mine as I rock almost violently on your lap. You thrust under me and I feel my self-control spiral away from me. My thighs burn as your hand takes over stroking me to climax. 

"Oh fuck, Sherlock." You cry loud enough for the entire house to hear.

I cry your name over and over like a chant while I release on your stomach and chest. 

 

 

My heart thunders in my ears, as I pant. I open my eyes to the fading flashes of lightning. The thunder has ceased and the rain patters against the windows. I need another shower. Kicking off the sheets, I remove my pants in favour of clean ones from my case. Lazily, I wipe my hand on my soiled pants and toss them in a corner. The room is still oppressively stuffy. I crack a window in hopes the storm has ushered in cooler air. It’s two in the morning, and you are mostly likely asleep - dreaming of Claudia. 

I flop back on the bed I just fantasized shagging you on. Instead of draping my arm around your sweaty torso, I tuck my hands behind my head and watch the fan turn above me. 

This won’t interrupt the work, I convince myself. It’s just a situational infatuation. Some new wank material - nothing more. Yet the emptiness spreads from my chest to my limbs. 

I open my eyes to be blinded by a shaft of sunlight streaming over my face. The storminess of last night has given way to yet another stifling summer day. I already hear insects hiss in the beach grass outside my window. I blink a few times to focus on my watch. Six in the morning. Four hours of restless sleep. I roll away from the window and close my eyes. I walk through my mind palace to find the most tedious room. Boring scripts, people - things I can delete. Something is gnawing at me. The images of last night - actual and fantasy - flicker from across the hall. You are not meant to have space in here. Certainly not one you can call your own.

 

 

The smell of expensive coffee causes my eyes to pop open again. It was useless. The sun, the smells and the company will not let me rest. I haul myself out of bed to take another shower. Last nights fantasy has dried and left me uncomfortable. I stand under the jets, and you are here. Your arms are braced against the blue tiles. My back presses against you as I become your first. You wince but wrap an arm around my back to hold me there. You don’t want me to stop. I drop my lips to the space between your shoulder and neck to suck wet skin. I taste the tang of blood as I mark you for the entire house to know. Your head presses against the tile and I hit your prostate. You hiss and swear, but forbid me stop. One hand grips your hip for leverage as the other slips down wet skin to take you in hand. I demand you to come for me - to call my name. 

I clean up and hope that this will be enough to start the day. I cannot remember feeling the need to masturbate twice in less than twelve hours. I pull on my hideous beach clothes and leave the bedroom. 

I’m equally disappointed and relieved to find only Claire in the kitchen.

"Quite a storm last night." She looks up from the paper.

"Hmm. We got caught in it." I nod.

"That explains the wet towels on the floor." She grabs a mug from the cupboard. "Coffee."

I breathe it in slowly. “Yes, it’s what beckoned me.”

She smiles as she pours a cup.

"Do you have a name for him?" I peer over the rim.

"Him?" She looks up a bit startled. 

"The baby." I glance at her belly.

"Did John….wait. We didn’t tell anyone." She frowns.

"John doesn’t know." I smile to alleviate some of the tension in her face. "The way you are carrying. It’s all in the front. Plus your skin glows. Girls notoriously take looks from the mother for themselves while sons give their mothers their beauty."

I won’t get into the details of how I do what I do. How I know what she’s thinking. How I know she could do far better than Harry.

A laugh escapes her mouth. “Oh, thank you.”

"Do you have a name?" I ask.

"I like William. Harry finds it boring." 

"I rather like William." I nod.

"I like you, Sherlock." She blushes.

I pick up my iPad to head outside. “The feeling is mutual”

"Do you want breakfast? I can make eggs or something." 

"Just coffee for now, thank you." I wink and move to the deck.

I toss my iPad to the chaise and rest against the railing. The storm has churned up all sorts of debris on the shore. Even in the glittering sun, the waves crash against the beach still disturbed from last night. The sun warms my skin pleasantly. In a few hours it will be strong enough to blister. I breathe in the salty tang of the air. This is a lovely place. 

What would have happened if we stayed in the city last night? You’d probably leave me on my own while you spent the night with Claudia. My thoughts might not have been as compromised. There would be more distractions, some less healthy than others. 

I glance back at the house. Soon less desirable house guests will be down. I sit on the chaise and take advantage of the quiet. I settle in and flick through different projects you’ve brought to me. There is the new World War 2 movie that Guy Ritchie is rumoured to direct. You like the drama about a writer forced to care for his abusive mother from David Fincher. I swear that you send me the romantic comedy to test me. I don’t care if Nora Ephron’s protege penned it. I settle for World War 2.

I shut out the voices that float from the kitchen. Andrew and his models have risen. Soon enough, they’ll be on the deck giggling and screeching. I lose myself in the words in front of my eyes. The work - that is what is most important. I needed to constantly remind myself of that. I find that I’m easily distracted lately.

"I heard you were up early." Your voice floats over my shoulder. 

I blink as I come back to the present. 

You chuckle. “Absorbed in it, eh? What one was that?” 

You lean over me. You’ve showered this morning. The piney soap wafts off your skin mingling with your musk.

I look up to see your scruffy grin. Swallow, Sherlock. “Second to Say Goodbye. The Guy Ritchie film.”

"What do you think?" You clear your throat and straighten your back.

"Interesting. There seems to be a wealth of worthy work lately. Hopefully, I can find myself in one of these."

You sit beside me. “We’ll work on a list. Prioritize what we want most, hmm?”

I rather like your use of ‘we’ and ‘us’. It makes me feel indestructible. 

"Did you have breakfast?" you ask.

"I had coffee. Did you sleep well?"

"Like the dead." You smile and stretch. I have to concentrate on not stealing a glance your way. "That late night swim took a lot out of me."

 

 

I close the door in my mind that has become your room. Fighting it is futile. It is time to accept the role you play in my life. However for the moment, I need to close off this room before I act rashly and ruin everything.

You look over. “How did you sleep?”

I shrug. “As well as can be expected during a raging storm and stifling humidity.”

You pat my leg. “Don’t worry, Holmes. We’ll be back in tepid London in a matter of days.”

It will be a relief, honestly. The ocean, the warmth and you are having an adverse effect on me.

You stand. “I’m starved. Are you getting breakfast?”

"I’m not hungry. I ate dinner last night." 

You wink. “That’s right. You ate three meals yesterday. It was a first in my history with you. How long will that hold you?”

I give you a wry grin. “Until we get back to London.”

You shake your head. “Nutter.”

I’m left alone again. With a deep breath, I focus on my screenplay.

 


	13. Temptation Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock plays volleyball?

Sherlock

 

 

 

My eyes flutter open. In the distance, I hear shouts and shrieks of laughter. My shirt sticks to every inch of my torso. An umbrella that wasn’t here before blocks the sun from burning my retinas as I blink I to the day. 

"Hey sleepyhead. Who are you? I’ve seen you eat three times in one day and nap. What have you done with my piss pot of a client, Sherlock Holmes?" You grin.

What a sight to wake to. I scrub my hand through my unruly hair. I haven’t drooled, thankfully. “I cannot believe I dosed off.”

You laugh. “Dose off? You were snoring.”

I scoff. “I don’t snore.”

"You do. Next time I’ll record it." You poke my arm.

Next time, my mind buzzes. I’m at a disadvantage in my drowsy state. “How long was I out?”

"Roughly an hour. You were asleep when we came out from breakfast. Claire said you were up around six." You put your phone on the table. "You were about to bake in the sun. I moved the umbrella so you wouldn’t burn."

"Always taking care of things." I mutter.

"It’s my job. We leave tomorrow morning early. Your photo shoot is at noon." You glances at your phone.

I nod. A cry from the water switches my attention from the tension I feel to the bodies running around on the beach.

"I kicked them off the deck. You were so peaceful, I told them I’d kill them if they woke you." You tuck your hands behind your head. "They weren’t meant to here anyway."

Andrew runs after both Cheyenne and Lydia. I wouldn’t be shocked to discover they’ve all shared a bed at some point.

"Sleeping beauty is awake." Claire joins us.

"You’d think you people have never seen a kip." I sit up.

"Not one with so much drool." You tease. I still touch my lips for dry saliva.

"Harry wants you to set up the volley ball net." Claire drops her hand to your shoulder.

You sigh. “Why can’t Andrew set it up?”

"He wants Andrew to help you." Claire says.

You frown. “Who wants to play? I can guarantee you this one has no interest.”

I take offense even though it is true. 

"You know how he gets when he gets an idea in his head." She disappears back inside.

"So we’re meant to play volleyball?" I quirk an eyebrow.

"It would appear that way." You stand with a mighty sigh of annoyance. "Now I need to get this git to help me."

"I’ll assist." I stand.

You cock your head in amusement. “You?”

"John, I’m an actor not a diva. I can hammer a pole in the sand." 

"Suit yourself. Follow me." You gesture to the cellar.

To my disgust, we play volleyball for hours. It isn’t that terrible. As we set up the net, you strip off your shirt. You are less concerned today than yesterday. We’ve laid bare our childhood on some small part. Your shoulder is no longer a thing you need to hide from me. 

Harry joins us outside to declare the game will start. I begin to protest my involvement, but you surrender to Harry’s will. If you are playing, then I will play too. I add that I desire to be on your team as I’ve never played this game.

"Never? Christ." Harry shakes his head. "You’ve just chosen to pair up with the worst player in the family, but I have to admire your loyalty."

You roll your eyes. “I can hold my own.”

Cheyenne insists on being on our team. She parades and bends over to offer me a good view of her arse. It would be so easy. I like a little bit of challenge.

You show me the basics of blocking and serving. I watch you bounce the ball off the insides of your arms. When I try, I cry out with the sting of the leather.

"Are you okay?" You rush over.

 

 

"Why would anyone want to do this?" I scowl watching the skin on my arms turn bright pink. I suppress a shiver as your fingertips skim the tender flesh.

"Your skin never sees the outside does it? It’s soft like a baby’s bottom." You smirk.

"I’m not as rugged as you, Dr. Watson." I grumble.

"Let me feel." Cheyenne rushes over to fondle my arm.

"I’m fine." I snap.

"I can ice it for you." She peers at me from under enhanced lashes.

"Really. I’m fine. Let’s play." I move away.

I cannot help but wince and groan every time the ball slaps that area. Despite that, I am laughing. We’ve forgotten that Cheyenne is even playing with us. She tries to touch me, but it’s slowly dawning on her that her usual flirtations are not working. I strip off my shirt as sweat pours out of me. I’m hot and sticky, but when you and I collide, your hot skin slides over mine. I almost have to rush to the ocean to conceal and control my desire. 

"Come here. You’re turning pink." You grab the sun lotion.

Without protest, I offer my back to you. Your hands feel different today. They were haphazard and rushed yesterday as if I was covered in boils. Today, they rub circles into my muscles. You are thorough and thoughtful. It’s less lotion application and more massage. I recite the periodic table to control myself. 

I feel a final tap. “Okay. Get your chest and let’s kick their arses.”

We do not win. Yet, we do not go down in flames. Cheyenne and Lydia opt to work on their tans once testosterone takes over and the real battle begins. It sounds like a homosexual porn movie with the groans and grunts. 

We bump each other and fall often. You help me up, I brush sand off your back. We laugh and pat each other when we score a point. This is the most male camaraderie I’ve experienced in my life. It’s brilliant, really. My cheeks actually hurt from grinning. Your gaze lingers when you think I can’t see. I don’t let on. If you are beginning to feel attracted to me, I need this build. You need to come to this on your own. 

After the game, we run into the water to wash off the sweat and sand. I refrain from just leaning closer to run my tongue over salty skin. You smell amazing and I’m sure you taste delicious. We swim, splash and dunk one another. We race to the shore and laugh. I forget how sharing time with someone you admire feels so amazing. That weightlessness and blood singing in my veins. It’s been years since I’ve even had someone to call a friend.

Andrew waves to us from the shore. “We’re getting clams for tonight. No storms so, a good night for a bonfire.”

You push the hair back from your eyes. “Perfect summer day. Better than the city.”

I look chagrin. “I hate to admit someone else is right. Yet, this has been very pleasant.”

You send a wall of water at me. “I was right, you berk. C’mon, let’s help Claire. Those shits won’t lift a finger.”

 

 

I dip under one more time before following you out of the water. I enjoy watching the water drip down your muscular back. 

"Cheyenne has been unabashed in her pursuit of you." I sense tension in your tone.

"She’s clearly delusion. I would rather saw off my hand than touch her body." I shake my head.

"You wouldn’t say that if you knew how much it cost." You mutter.

I raise my eyebrows, and you give me a small affirmative nod. We laugh all the way to the deck.

Claire puts us to work on ears of corn. We strip off husks and fling strands of corn silk at each other. It’s very much like having a brother - one I want to shag senseless. 

We go over the next few days. Tomorrow is the photo shoot for Vanity Fair. Tuesday night, we see that musical you love so much. I was loathed to go before this weekend. Now, I’m looking forward to an evening with you and the theatre. Wednesday, we fly home where I have three grueling weeks to film the show before hiatus. 

"Hello? Where is everyone?" A female voice calls.

 

 

You freeze and a large smile spreads across your face. “What are you doing here?”

Claudia peeks around the doorframe. “I missed you and you’re leaving Wednesday.”

You fly from my side to gather her in your arms. My disappointment is palpable and strips me of my appetite. All muscles seize as you kiss her. Just beyond you, Claire notices the shift in me. I wasn’t guarded enough. You are oblivious, but she turns around to give my disappointment some privacy.

 

 

"I’ll go help Claire." I brush past you. 

"Thanks mate." You wink.

My stomach burns. I want to slip inside my room, your room where you fuck Claudia usually. I don’t want to face Claire’s sympathetic eyes. But I go anyway because anything else would give me away.

Claire chats about anything. She talks about the house and all the renovations they had to do. She asks me about acting - do I have a process and how I started. I despise small talk about myself, but she knows I need casual distraction. I pivot myself away from the happy reunion on the deck.

Cheyenne appears fresh from a shower. “Ooh dinner.”

If I play along, I could be competing with you for orgasms. I weigh that decision heavily. Sure, I might be able to forget for the five minutes it takes to climax, but Cheyenne is a hangover I’m not ready to endure. 

We sit outside on a long picnic table. You’ve barely glanced in my direction since Claudia arrived. I feel foolish for even considering that something was sparking between us. Cheyenne plants herself beside me. She’s tenacious if nothing else. I could shamelessly flirt to see if you notice, but the consequences would not be worth it. I turn to the only other person that doesn’t annoy or bore me - Claire. We talk about her career before Harry. She had been nominated for Tony’s a few times. She was a very respected actress before she began traveling with Harry.

"And with his connections, he couldn’t get you to test for a movie?" I frown. 

"I didn’t want to leave New York. The stage is my true love." She sighs. "I hope in a year that I can get back on it." She nudges me. "That’s why I was relieved when you chose John. I didn’t want to leave New York."

"London does have the West End." I offer.

She nods thoughtfully. “That would have been a fresh start. But to go against the Helen Mirrens and Maggie Smiths. Is there much work for an older American actress?”

"You are hardly older, and the West End is always in need of a good actress." My tone causes her to blush. 

I don’t eat much except for some salad. The clams are too rich. Normally, you would pester me but you are occupied. I’m not sure you are aware you share the table with six other people. 

I escape to my room after dinner to phone Greg and Molly. I wonder if I’ll be evicted from this room now that she’s here. 

Greg informs me that the part in the next Spike Jonze movie has gone to another actor. However, David Fincher was pleased that John had given me his screenplay. HBO wants to discuss a series of six episodes based on the latest vampire novel s flying off the shelves. I cringe. 

Molly has messages from my mum inviting me to dinner when I’m back in town. There are several invitations to parties, openings and public events that I will need to go over with you. Charities are calling her every day. There’s a call from an old theatre friend, Sebastian. He rings every now again. He’ll ask to go to lunch, and I never return to call. Last I heard, his marriage of three years had crumbled. That was six months ago.

I’m writing down the notes of my conversation with Molly when I hear a soft knock on the door. Resigned I open it expecting Cheyenne.

"Where did you go?" Your eyes look concerned.

Oh, you remembered I am here after all. “I was checking in with Greg and Molly.”

"Anything good?" You lean against the door.

"Some invitations and public appearances to consider. We can do that later." I wave my hand casually.

A smile creeps in the corner of your mouth. “Later, probably not. Tomorrow, definitely.”

I nod. “Right. Otherwise engaged.”

"Are you going to hide in here all night?" You look concerned.

"Well," I glance back over my shoulder. "My Cheyenne buffer is now busy."

You turn a delicious shade of pink. “Sorry. I haven’t seen her much this trip. I’ve been with you.”

"How terrible." I sound like an insolent child and don’t care.

A playful punch lands on my bicep. “Come on, don’t be like that. I know you hate all people….”

"Not all John, just most." I correct you.

"Please come down to bonfire. You haven’t lived unto you’ve had a s’more." You grin.

 

 

"Fine." I sigh. "I’m going to shower and I’ll be down."

Your face brightens. “Great.”

I close the door again to lean my head on the wood. I need to get my thoughts together. We’ve spent too much time together and it has altered my mind. I strip off my disgusting clothes covered in sand, sweat and dried sun lotion. I notice faint colour on my arms and legs. The sun has been kind to me. I step in the shower and immediately my cock swells like a Pavlovian experiment. You drift in my head - jumping in the sand and splashing in the water. I shake my head violently.

I think of Cheyenne and a faceless girl with me in the shower. I think of her mouth on me while I kiss the other. I look down and long hair is close cropped and yours.

Fuck. I shake my head. She’s face first against the tiles now. My hand is buried long hair. I silence high pitched keening which only turns to low grunts - like ones I heard on the beach. Bollocks. I’m aching and just need to get off. 

I think of my first shag at uni. Gangly arms pinned under me. His breath raging. He’s not sure he wants me inside him, but the coke changes his mind. It’s rough and glorious thanks to the drugs coursing through me. I access that feeling of discovery and living forever. It has to do for now. You are off limits to me.

The bonfire is raging when I finally emerge from the house. It’s like a bad sixties film, everyone in a semicircle with long sticks pointing towards the fire. If I see a guitar, I’m calling a taxi.

You are wrapped around Claudia - as expected. However, your face brightens when you see me. Extracting yourself from her, you stand.

"I was just about to give up on you." You smile.

"Just some work items." I ignore the way the fire flickers over the best features of your face.

"Let’s get you a marshmallow." He grabs a stick from a pile.

Soon I sit beside Lydia with my own burning marshmallow.

"Cheyenne thinks you’re cute." Lydia offers.

My stomach turns. There are not enough drugs for me to deal with this.

"That’s comforting." I twirl my stick.

"She said you don’t seem interested." Lydia continues.

"I do not get involved. My focus is entirely on the work." I state.

"So no fun at all?" She asks.

"Is this not fun?" I know it’s torture but everyone else seems to think it is grand time.

"You know what I mean." She nudges me.

"Oh, sex you mean?"I blow out the fire on my charred confection.

She giggles. Dear God. “Um, yeah. You’re a guy. You must want it.”

I take a deep breath and think of way to explain it to a simpleton like herself. “Want and need are different things. I am very focused on my career. The roles. The work is what is important. Everything else is superfluous. Sex, love, friendships. It’s noise that gets in the way of the work.” I look across the fire to you. You watch me with interest. I can’t tell what kind really. Perhaps you are worried I’ll offend Lydia.

"Oh." It’s all she says before turning to Andrew. Her stint as matchmaker is over.

This is excruciating. I’m only out here because I was keen on this after the volley ball game. I envisioned the fire a background to pleasant conversation. We’d sit apart from everyone and enjoy the evening. I never care about being alone - in fact I prefer it. Yet I feel lonely within this gathering.

"Your marshmallow is destroyed." You hover over me.

I was lost in my own head that I didn’t notice you standing. “This is not my expertise.”

"Take mine." You smile. Kneeling beside me, you place your perfectly toasted marshmallow between two biscuits and a square of chocolate.

"There you go."

"You’ve been in America too long." I huff but take the gooey concoction.

It is ridiculously messy. Most of it oozes on to the sand between my legs. You laugh as I struggle to eat this sickening sweet glob. I push any amorous images of licking sticky white substance off of anything. I concentrate on how ridiculous I look.

"Good?"

I shove as much as I can in my mouth. “Messy.” Yet I nod. “Good.”

You grin brightly and plop beside me. “Now you’ve had a perfect summer day.”

Almost. Another swim and leisurely shag would make it perfect.

"Lydia trying to get you to pair off with Cheyenne?"

I groan.

"I told Lydia she wasn’t your type." You nudge me.

"Understatement." I brush my fingers on my cotton trousers.

Suddenly, a cool wind gusts from out of nowhere scattering hot embers on the sand. A crack of thunder follows a flash of lightning.

"What the hell?" Harry scampers to his feet.

Dark clouds encroach on the twinkling stars above my head. I do not pray or hope, but this is close to a prayer being answered. Blankets, a cooler and picnic bags are gathered hastily before the rain starts to pelt. You and Andrew douse the flames with buckets of water from the now angry sea. We scramble up the beach in a hurry, flinging ourselves into the kitchen.

"You checked the forecast?" Andrew asks.

"It said 30 percent chance." Harry dumps sandy blankets on the floor.

"Is that the perfect summer evening?" I raise my eyebrow in your direction.

"No, but typical." You pant.

"Let’s see what we have on DVD. Claire, can you make popcorn?" Harry asks.

"I might as well take a shower." Claudia shrugs and heads towards my room.

You grab her arm. “Were upstairs. I offered my bed to Sherlock.”

Strange choice of words.

She turns to me with an amused look. “You must be important for him to give his bed to you.”

"Important? Doubtful. Perhaps lucky." I say.

You grin. “You don’t believe in luck.”

 

 

"People change their minds about life all the time." I realise my tone might be a bit too warm.

"Then I’ll just go upstairs." Claudia says.

You stare after her, deciding if you can join her or of ot would be rude to leave me here. A part of me wants to ask you to to review our schedule one more time at the kitchen table. It will only delay the inevitable. You will climb those stairs to make love to your girlfriend.

"I’m going to bed." I announce.

"Now?" You frown at your watch.

"I’m going to read. We’ve an early day tomorrow. One I’m going to be photographed during. I can’t have luggage under my eyes."

You clap my shoulder. “Good thinking. Your best face forward.”

 

 

"Exactly." My smile is tight. You don’t know me well enough to know when I’m displeased.

"Good night then. We leave at eight. Do you need me to wake you?" You ask.

"I never sleep late, if at all. I’ll be ready."

"Right. Good night." You are giddy with arousal. I have given you the night off. I’m grateful your room is not over mine. As it is, I know what you’re up to.

I close the door to the bedroom. Everything will be better in London. Things make sense there.

I look to the bed. I have no interest in reading another screenplay tonight. I know sleep will not come easy. With a heavy sigh, I fish my shaving kit out of my suitcase. Deep inside, I pull out a small prescription bottle. I press it to my forehead. This makes me feel weak, needing a crutch. It’s just one night. I flip one Valium into my palm. It’s certainly not a syringe of heroin or even OxyContin - but I know in order to sleep, I need it.

With a swig of water, I swallow the pill. I consider a warm shower to help the process, but my need to climax is just under the surface. You have unwittingly uncorked years of repressed desires in one ridiculous weekend.

Outside, the storm rages mirroring my mind. A wall of water slams against the windows of the bedroom as the house shakes against splitting cracks of thunder.

I shrug off my clothes and crawl under cooled sheets. My body is not ready to rest. I grab my mobile off the bedside table to check my emails. Greg, Molly, Mycroft, my lawyers, the usual suspects. Nothing that holds my interest. I toss my phone to the side. The ceiling fan turns overhead with a low hum. I consider another pill, just to fall asleep faster.

Instead, I opt to turn in the television and choose a documentary on World War 2. I’m asleep ten minutes later.

 

Publish


	14. You Look So Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is thrilled to leave the beach house. John's not as upset as he should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and leaving comments. And thank you for your patience. 
> 
> You Look So Fine - Garbage
> 
> https://play.spotify.com/track/5NRlMwGdi3THg3gLYsblbb

John

"I wish you didn’t have to go." Claudia kisses my shoulder. 

 

 

"I know, but the photo-shoot is today. We probably should have been back in the city last night." I slip on my jeans.

"Then you could have stayed longer." She hugs me from behind.

"Hindsight." I sigh. "Are you back in the city tonight?" 

"I’m back tomorrow afternoon." She shrugs. "I’ve a screen test here with a prominent director."

I turn around. “Who? At a beach house?”

She nods. “It could be a big deal.”

"Tell me." I run my hand up her thigh. "Come on."

She squeals. “I can’t.”

"Who does tests at their house? Casting couch?"I raise an eyebrow.

"Don’t be vile, John Watson!" She swats my arm. "Fine. Rob Reiner is developing a show for Showtime."

"That’s promising." 

"I told you." She pinches me. 

I toss a shirt over my head. “Good luck.” 

She leans back against the pillows and allows the sheet to fall to her waist. “Sure you don’t have five minutes?”

"Five minutes? Thank you very much." I scoff jovially.

"You know what I mean." She whines.

There she is spread out and willing. I’m partly aroused, but not where I should be. Even last night, it was nice and effective. After days of sexual tension coiling in my spine, I should have pounced on her and my needs sated. It was just okay. I tried to dismiss it as exhaustion, but there is something nagging at the back of my head. 

"I have to go make sure Sherlock is awake." I move to the door.

"Your new boyfriend." She rolls her eyes.

Something about her tone bothers me a little. She sounds jealous. Of you? Maybe because you do monopolize my time. However, you need to right now. We’re forming a partnership to take your career through the stratosphere.

"He doesn’t kiss as good as you." I stick my tongue out as I pull the door open.

I just miss the pillow lobbed at my head. 

You are sitting at the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee in front of you. Gone are the beach clothes and replaced with a fitted blue dress shirt and fitted trousers. You are the only person I know gagging to get out of casual clothes.Unaware of my presence, you tap away on your phone. The sun streams in across the top of your head outlining all those sharp angles. In this light, you look so young and innocent. I feel my breath catch like a tickle in my throat. My mind goes completely blank as your eyes meet mine. You raise your eyebrows in question. Still no words are coming to me. Why the fuck is that?

 

 

"John?" You lean forward.

"You’re up." I manage to get out. 

You nod slowly. “You said we were leaving first thing.” You motion to your bags already stacked in the hallway. “I’m ready. Are you?”

I have to think for a moment. “Yes. I just need to put on shoes. I came down to wake you if you weren’t up already.”

Something passes in your eyes - flicker of amusement. You are biting your tongue and I’m dying to know what it is. 

"Well, I am." You say instead.

"I’ll be right down." I dart back to my room for my bag and shoes. I hear the shower running. I poke my head. "Okay, I’m off."

Claudia’s wet head peeks out. “Already? I thought we could have breakfast first.”

"No time. He’s ready and we need to get to the city. Traffic might be a problem." I shrug. It should bother me more to dash off like this.

"Oh, come give us a kiss." She puckers her lips.

They are soft and wet from the shower. For a moment, I do think how nice it’d be to join her. However, it lasts for only a moment. I’m more concerned with a certain high maintenance actor in the kitchen.

You are quiet on the ride back to the city. Your gaze switches from your phone to the scenery we pass. 

"You are uncharacteristically quiet." I muse.

You look over. “Do we have something to discuss?”

"I miss Beach Sherlock." I mutter. 

You gaze at me for a few minutes more before you return to your phone.

"Did you have even a sliver of fun?" I ask huffily.

"I did, John." You nod.

"Did? Did you stop having fun?" I push further.

"It was an enjoyable weekend. Thank you for bringing me." Your voice is flat.

"Until Claudia came?" I look over for a reaction.

"It’s a shame you feel that way, John. She is your girlfriend." You don’t even meet my glance.

I swallow. I’m not sure why I’m going down this road. “I mean you. After she showed up, you seemed withdrawn. You weren’t having much fun.”

You sigh and drop your phone in your lap. “If you mean that when you were otherwise preoccupied with her and I was left to converse with the vapid wit of Cheyenne and Lydia, then yes. It ceased being ‘fun’.” You quote the last word. 

"Oh." I hadn’t considered that I all but deserted my guest for the affections of my girlfriend. "Claire was there."

"Yes she was. However, I am only intimately acquainted with you. We’ve discussed my social shortcomings in the best of circumstances. Your brothers and inane models do not fit those." Those kaleidoscope eyes burn into me.

I nod. “You are right. I wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry.”

Your face softens like melted butter. “I accept your apology. Shall we get on with our day now?”

With that, the mood lifts like fog. You chat amiably. You even smile and laugh. Good Lord that throaty laugh. When it’s genuine it is rich like Belgian chocolate. The way it makes the hair at the back of my neck stand on end is a bit discomfiting. 

We go directly to the studio of the photographer. Angela Dumas is thrilled to meet you. She’s considered edgy and an outcast, so she sees a kinship with you. The three of us pour over the clothes that Gucci has sent. You stick to tried and true blacks, whites and blues. Angela pulls out greys and reds -and one purple shirt, we both agree to. 

I take one sweeping head to toe of your long frame. While you are certainly taller than me, you aren’t particularly tall. It’s your lean physique and incredible posture that makes you seem larger. I pluck a pair of pinstripe pants and a tight short-sleeved dress shirt off the rack. 

"This definitely." I nod.

"This?" You frown.

"Yes. Show off those arms. Those sleeves don’t do them justice." I wish I could eat those words as they leave my mouth.

"John, I didn’t think you noticed. You flatter me so." You bat those ridiculous eyelashes at me.

 

 

"Git. Go change." I cross my arms but am fully aware I’ve turned purple.

While Angela is all business, her young assistant is less professional. She is in full heat as she flutters around you to fix a collar or adjust one of your curls. You know this and use it. She fetches you cheese, coffee and water. You flutter your eyelids in her direction and drop your voice to dangerous levels when you speak to her. It’s unlike you to engage in silly flirtations. You seem to be genuinely enjoying her advances and giggles.

I, on the other hand, am annoyed. That sing-song tone to your voice grates my nerves. I swear that you stare right at me while making her blush - like it’s for my benefit. The entire session makes me fidget.

"There’s a lovely patio upstairs. Let’s change you and use the natural light." Angela removes her camera.she shuffles over to the pile of approved clothes. She chooses a pair of grey pinstripe trousers to go with the purple and short sleeved shirts. "These will do. You agree?"

Her eyes are on me. “Yes, that’s fine.”

"Go change." She thrusts the clothes at you.

"Do you need assistance?" The assistant coos.

You touch her cheek playfully. “You little minx.” 

"Meg, come here." Angela demands. "I need these upstairs."

Meg pouts like a toddler. Clearly she’d rather help you strip to your pants or less. Angela has burst her bubble of getting you off in a changing room. 

You let her go with a wink before heading to the changing room. My glare is not lost on you. “What?”

"I thought that didn’t interest you." I grouse.

"You mean getting off with a pretty young thing eager to please?" You gesture to the space she occupied. You roll your eyes as I seethe. "Please John. Give me some credit, hmm? I was just making her feel appreciated."

"You damn near have that girl in heat. She’s one wink away from a full swoon." I snap.

"And where’s the bad publicity in that? She rushes to her Twitter or Tumble to gush how I flirted and was the sweetest thing ever. You pointed out the number of female fans I have and they are the most loyal. You’ve told me to not isolate them." You angrily shove the pair of charcoal trousers off to reveal tight black pants. I turn away from sculpted legs that I remember brushing against in the ocean. 

"She thinks she has a chance with you." I say over my shoulder.

"Human error, John." I can hear your casual shrug.

I shake my head. You seem like a different person from yesterday. How many of you live inside your head? I hear the rustling of clothes behind me.

"You don’t have to turn away." You sound almost wounded.

"I’m just giving you some privacy." I fold my arms. It’s as if you are daring me to turn around.

"I never require it. I’m not ashamed of my body." 

"You shouldn’t be." I mutter, then freeze. I actually said that out loud.

"Another compliment. That two today." You purr. "And you shouldn’t be ashamed of your body. From what I saw in your swim pants, Claudia is a very lucky girl."

I know I’m turning several shades of red. A fire spreads across my skin. What does your face look like right now? Are you putting on your charms like you did with Meg? 

I sneak a look over my shoulder. God Lord, purple is your colour. 

"Does this meet with your approval?" You smile in a most dangerous way.

 

 

Speak Watson. Say something and stop gawking. What is wrong with you today?

"Nothing?" You feign a pout.

I furrow my brow. “Just trying to decide if we should roll the selves up or not. I’ll let Angela weigh in. Let’s go.”

You seem satisfied by just the look on my face. I follow you to the lift. I stare at the floor because my heart thundered when I looked at your slim hips. Those trousers are fucking sinful - curving over your arse. I take a deep breath. 

You lean against the mirrored panel inside the lift. I have the other shirt for you to change into.

"Hungry?" You ask.

"What?" I start from my daze.

"I can hear your stomach rumbling." You glance down.

"We did skip lunch. And that breakfast sandwich is not holding me." I feel your eyes searching me.

"Early dinner?" You ask.

I nod. “Might be a good idea. You won’t be spending the evening with Meg?”

You laugh. “Please John. I told you what that was. I’d sooner spend it with Angela and she’s gay.”

"Oh you like them really hard to get." I tease. 

We both erupt in a fit of giggles. You clutch your side as your head tilts back. The tension of earlier slips away a bit. I take a deep breath.

Your face settles to a tentative smile. “I guess I do.”

Did you just glance at me with intent?

Angela is waiting for us as the doors open. “Quickly, we’re losing the light.”

She ushers you to the stone ledge of the patio. The wind gently ruffles your curls. You look pensive, serene. You are most likely bored. Your eyes sweep in my direction between takes. I cross my arms, furrow my brow and nod a lot. 

Angela grabs your arm and begins rolling the sleeve to your elbow. She motions to a flushed Meg to do the other. Unfortunately, Meg’s hands shake so violently she struggles with buttons on the cuff. You make no move to assist her. 

"For Christsake." I grumble and move her out of the way. 

The corner of your mouth twitches into a ghost of a smile. You offer your arm as I fold the material back carefully to match Angela’s side. Despite all the time we spent in the sun over the last two days, your skin is slightly pink. I smooth the cuff over your bulging veins of your seemingly hairless arm. 

"There." I step away to move back to my spot behind the camera equipment. I pull out my phone and read some emails from Sally.

Work does an excellent job of switching my focus. Colin Firth is interested in a second meeting. Clive Owen is looking for a comeback to the screen. There are some names I recognise but I have to look up on IMDb. 

"John, did you bring the other shirt?" Angela asks.

"Yes, right here." I hand it to her.

Meg gasps as you unbutton the purple shirt. Yes, she’s about to discover that lean physique is not gaunt at all. A layer of muscles exist despite the reedy appearance. 

I’ve seen your naked torso all weekend. In fact, I’ve seen more thank to the nighttime swim. Yet, my mouth dries up at the sight of you shirtless in those pinstripe trousers. There is something obscene and sensual watching you push the shirt off your shoulders. I grip my phone tightly in my pocket. I set my jaw to not care as I can only see the mop of curls while you do up your shirt. It’s tight across your chest. 

"Didn’t have your size?" I attempt to make a joke.

"I think it looks perfect." Meg gushes.

You wink at her. “Thank you Meg.” 

Truthfully, there is nothing bad about the way that shirt fits. With your rabid female fan base, Vanity Fair will sell out world wide. I think of the professional parts to this photo shoot and not your smoldering gaze.

Luckily, the heat of another New York day is dissipating. A cool breeze becomes a brisk wind signaling the end of the shoot. I make small talk with Angela in the lift. You are feeling the repercussions of flirting with Meg as she’s pressed beside you. Now you’ll have to escape into the night and break her heart.

*  *  *  *

Against my better judgement I take you to a small French bistro. I know the owner and the food excellent. It’s not trendy enough for the usual hangers-on.

Dominic greets us with a warm smile and relatively empty restaurant. Monday nights, most places are closed as it’s typically a slow night.

"Where is Claudia?" he asks. He’s a bit soppy for her.

"She’s working. This is Sherlock." I motion to you.

You offer a wry smile.”I’m his date tonight.”

Dominic looks perplexed and a little shocked.

"He’s joking. He’s a client." Suddenly I feel flustered.

Dominic smiles in understanding. “You actors. Come sit!”

 

 

He still seats us at a cozy little table. You sit and pull out your phone. A frown creases your brow.

"Something wrong?" I open the menu.

"Casting news." You sigh. "Irene has been cast in a small role for this next episode."

"Irene is the ex?" Something personal. Interesting.

 

 

"Of sorts. I’ve mentioned her." You tap back a message most likely to Greg.

"Is there anything I can do to make that easier?" I ask.

Those penetrating eyes gaze through me. They warm from a cold slate to almost a clear turquoise. 

"Thank you, John. There’s nothing I need you to do." You pick up your menu.

"Are you sure?"

"I’m a professional." You sniff.

"Is she?" I ask. I make a note to read all I can about Irene Adler. 

Your eyebrows rise with a small shrug of your shoulders. “That remains to be seen.”

As usual, you order an amazing duck dinner but only pick at it. Instead, you steal my scallops. 

"Why didn’t you order these?" I sigh as another one disappears between your lips.

"I didn’t know I wanted them until I saw your dish." There is that half unapologetic shrug.

"Then give me some of your duck." I make space on my plate. 

You move your plate to the space beside me then move in behind it. 

Now it looks like a date as we graze from one another’s plate. I’ve never quite shared dinner with another man like this. You look as comfortable as ever. Is it because you have dated a man or do you just really have no sense of personal space and norms? Of course, Dominic brings a decadent chocolate mousse with two spoons. You dig into that heartily. You and your sweets.

You suggest a night cap. I feel strange going to your room. There is something off in the air around us. Instead, I steer you to the small lounge at the top of the hotel. There are amazing views of the city, leather chairs and a fire. We sit by the window and watch the city sparkle below us. 

"So, theatre tomorrow night?" You hold your gaze out the window.

"If you are still up for it." 

You frown and meet my eyes. “You wanted me to see it, yes?”

"I do. I know you hate musicals." I shrug.

"I never said that." Your frown deepens as defenses go up.

I lean forward. “Radio Times 2009. You said that you would not star in a musical on the West End. You didn’t see the point of all that singing and dancing.”

Your eyes widen before your lips twitch to a hint of a grin. “You’ve read all my interviews?”

I tap my temple. “Bloody well committed them to memory. I need to know when you contradict yourself or say something that could come back at you.”

"Extraordinary." You settle back in your chair with your hands steepled up her your nose. Your gaze is a little unnerving. "That was not a good time. I was volatile."

"And you’re kitten now?" I laugh.

"From then, considerably. I would very much like to see this musical. Especially since you think I would be in good in it." You take another sip of your whiskey.

 

 

"I think it would be extremely out of your comfort zone and very good for you." I say thoughtfully. 

"Then I look forward to it." You smile. "Shall we supper after?"

I smile. “It is Broadway.”

 

 


	15. I'm walking on moon beams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes Sherlock to the theatre.

Sherlock

 

I have the hotel launder and press the purple shirt from the photo-shoot. As tedious as having my photo taken for hours can be, the perks of keeping the clothes can be a nice reward. I’ve chosen the purple shirt as it was the one you had the strongest reaction to. I pause for a moment in the mirror while I button my suit jacket. I’ve prepared myself tonight like it was a date and not what it really is - my agent introducing me to possible work.

  
I know our relationship has shifted in the last few weeks. I dare say that we are friends. I shake my head angrily. I don’t care if I have friends, so why do I care so much about how to label us? I never put this much effort into Greg or Molly. I hate that you are so different. As I dress, I remember your eyes when I exited the dressing room. I looked like a piece of meat and you had not eaten in days. It took every ounce of self control to not force the issue and myself on you. Your feeling towards me might be confused at the moment. If I scare you off, I could damage more than just my ego.

  
A knock brings me back to my image in the mirror. I take a deep breath. You are just a man, nothing to get in a titter about.

  
I open the door with as much flare as I can muster. “John.”

 

 

  
You wear a grey suit with a white shirt and no tie. The contrast of your tanned skin under the open shirt makes my mouth water. You gape for a moment before you catch yourself. Your smile goes directly to my groin.

  
“They let you keep the shirt?” You clear your throat.

  
“You said it looked good on me. Is that still true?” I raise an eyebrow.

  
You nod. “Yes. It’s very nice indeed.”

 

 

  
“Do you want a drink before?” I gesture inside.

  
“Yes, but not here. We are going to a nice watering hole for the Broadway elite.”

  
I close the door behind me. “Then lead the way.”

  
I steal a glance at you in the lift. “You look very nice in suits, by the way.”

  
“Oh, um…thank you. You’re Sherlock and you know you look good in a suit.” You smirk.

  
I sniff and lift my chin in the air. “It’s still nice to hear.”

  
You lean closer. “You look nice.”

  
“I know.” I wink.

  
  
The restaurant is old and elegant with chandeliers and hundreds of Play Bills gracing the walls. Almost every play and musical is hung there with cast signatures. The clientele was a mixture of actors having a pre-show meal and theatre patrons. We lean against the bar for a glass of whiskey. That’s where I watch you work your magic. Directors, stage managers, and writers approach you with open arms and smiles. You introduce me with one hand on my shoulder. You talk of my love for the stage and wonderfully crafted dialogue. While I do love the challenge of live theatre, its intimacy bothers me. To give oneself over time and again to the work, your fellow cast mates and the audience - well it terrifies me. Film work is as intimate as I want  it to be. It’s done in chunks of time and not hours.

  
There is excitement that I’m here. The word is out about my pipeline of work. I know you’ve help to create this buzz and mystery about me. Despite being surrounded, I smile and feel light on my feet. You have me under your gaze and in your capable, strong hands.

  
After two drinks, your hand finds my shoulder again. “We should get to the theatre. I want you to meet some of the cast.”

  
I nod to the small crowd that surrounds us. The two whiskeys have relaxed me and I enjoy the view as you lead me out of the bar.

  
“You did very well.” You pat my back. “I didn’t expect that many to be there on a Tuesday, but it was good. There were a few columnists there and you’ll be in the society pages with the right people.”

  
“You are amazing.” I breathe.

  
You stop to fix with me a bewildered look. “Did you just compliment me?”

 

 

  
I wave my hand. I’ve been a little too free with my adoration. “Nonsense. I always have high regard for you. It’s you that takes issue with hearing it.”

  
You nod. “You’re right. I’m not used to praise. I get it from Claudia but I’m shagging her.”

  
My teeth dig into my bottom lip so hard I taste the coppery tang in my mouth. Can you imagine the adoration if we shagged, John? I take deep breath to hold my thoughts together. Suddenly I see the error in deleting this part of my life. It never truly deletes. It lays dormant until the right person open the door.

  
“Is this theatre far?” I huff. I can blame the heat for the beads of sweat collecting along my brow.

  
“Just around the corner.” You are beaming, and that is not helping my condition.

  
As promised, we enter through the stage door. We meet the two leads - one of which I would play. Their passion for the work is commendable. You chat easily with the stage manager and director before leading me to our seats.

  
“Is this a labour of love for you?” I ask.

  
“This musical? I really enjoy it. Normally I have no time for adaptations, but this one worked very well. There’s not enough original theatre when it comes it to musicals.” You turn to me. “I want to see what you think. Perhaps this could be something out of the box for you. No one would expect it. It’d be brilliant.”

  
“That would mean I’d really have to lobby for it.” I counter.

  
You give me a blinding smile. “That’s where I come in.”

  
The lights dim for the opening scene. It’s not a complicated story. Boy, or Guy wants Girl and Girl is unavailable. Unrequited love is the oldest story in the world, it never seems to get old. During the opening song, you lean forward to listen intently. Unrequited love. The tightness in my chest causes me to shift. It must be the shirt.

  
Despite the elementary story line, the music is beautiful in its simplicity. There are no bombastic musical numbers with ridiculous costumes or choreography. It’s just a nice story with haunting melodies to help move it along.

  
What strikes me more than the musical itself is your rapt attention to every scene. It reminds of the night we watched the movie on your sofa. Your breath catches as the two leads sing the most popular tune “Falling Slowly”. I have to force my eyes forward instead of watching you.

  
As the first act is near the end, I feel your arm press against mine as we share the arm rest.

  
“This is my favourite scene.” Your breath tickles my ear.

 

 

  
Guy is on stage for his big performance with a distressed guitar. He sings a melancholy song of love “Gold”. Slowly his ‘audience’ begins to join him one by one. Rustic instruments like mandolins and violins fill the gaps in his song. We are close enough that I feel the thrum of each string instrument. As the other musicians join in, they stand and sway to Guy’s love song.

  
Suddenly, I feel like the air has been sucked from my lungs. The weight of your arm burns through my clothes. Our fingers are inches apart, dangling over the arm rest. Just a twitch and our skin would make contact. Oh, how I want to. But I know it’s too soon.

  
The music, your presence and the electric air have bewitched me. Your eyes slide my way, and your knowing grin settles in my belly. This is new and dangerous. Yet I cannot seem to stop myself from falling into your blue eyes.

  
The song builds to a crescendo as the musicians stop and twirl. Every step resonates in my chest as your shoulder presses into mine. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s night and day, hot and cold - I want to bolt as fast as my legs can take me. I did this to myself. I knew you were different the first moment I set eyes on you. I chose to put you in my life and now I must deal with the consequences.

  
Instead, I hold my breath as the strings stop to Guy’s guitar.

  
“And I love her so, I wouldn’t trade her for gold.”

  
His words ring in the air as the lights go down and the curtain closes.

  
There is a moment of silence before the theatre erupts in thunderous applause. I can’t feel my arms, but they clap along with you. There is a glaze in your eye as you nod to me. Apparently I get it. You don’t know exactly how much I understand. Of course you love this being a romantic. However I am far from sentimental, but I feel the catch in my chest.

  
“Drink?” You ask.

  
“Cheap wine? Sure.” I grouse artificially in an effort to not show how raw I feel.

  
As you stand at a tiny bar and wait for a glass of substandard Chardonnay, I long to be outside with the smokers. I’m desperate for fag, for something to do with my hands. I shove them in my trouser pockets and watch the theatre patrons.

  
“So?” You hold out a plastic cup to me.

  
I frown. “This is not the theatre.”

  
“It’s still wine.” You shrug. Your face sours. “Maybe.” Your eyes look to me expectantly. “What do think so far?”

  
“The music is quite lovely. That last song is haunting.” I feel every muscle tighten as your face lights up.

  
“That’s my favourite scene. It really embodies the entire work. It’s hard to explain, I guess.” You are adorable when you blush. You want for me to love this as much as you do.

  
“It was quite…moving.” We share a smile.

  
“Claudia thinks it’s overrated.” You shake your head with annoyance.

  
A chink in her armour. “It’s too bad since it means so much to you.”

  
“The story isn’t very complicated. It’s probably the music that grabs me. It is such a sweet story though.” A wistful look flickers briefly before it is replaced with a shy smile.

 

 

  
The lights flash. “Come on. Let’s see how it turns out.” I tug on the sleeve of your jacket.

  
I love the pleased expression you give me. I would sit through a thousand insipid musicals for that look.

  
The musical never quite reaches the emotion from the end of the first act. The end leaves me unsettled much like the lovers of the story. As we give the cast a standing ovation, I can’t help but stare at you. To see you give yourself over the manufactured sentiment of another fills my heart with emotions I’ve long deleted. The past few weeks with you has brought back a flood of things I decided I could live without.

  
We briefly congratulate the cast before you take me to a historical Broadway eatery. The food is passable, but the clientele is why we are here. A new play with Kevin Spacey has had its last night of previews for the press. Kevin and a few other notable actors mill about. He stops at our table for a few moments. Is there anyone you do not know? With your ease and gift for mingling, people flock to you. You make them smile. They tell you secrets. They want to know who you know and what projects interest you.

  
I nurse my wine through dinner. I need my head to be clear. Too many conflicting thoughts are coursing through me tonight to trust myself. I’ve been charged since that first night at the beach house. I think how nice it will be to toss myself back into the work when we get home. Dealing with Irene will almost be a pleasant distraction.

  
“If this project comes to fruition, would you be interested?” You ask over your chicken dish.

  
“I’d have to see the script, obviously.” I swipe another fingerling potato from your plate.

  
“Give me some your steak.” You point to barely touched filet.

  
I cut it in half and give it to you. “Do you have one handy?”

  
“A script? Not yet. It almost has the financing. Rob Marshall is keen to take it on.” You look at my blank expression. “He did Chicago. Won a ton of awards.”

  
I take another potato. We share our plates without a second thought lately. “I never saw it.”

  
“That doesn’t surprise me.” You glance to your phone. “Shit. I’ve missed three calls from Claudia.” You look up chagrined. “Since yesterday.”

  
“Oh my, aren’t you in a pickle.” I pluck an asparagus spear from your plate.

  
Your head cocks. “Why is it that you only eat from my plate?”

  
I shrug. “Perhaps you have a better idea of what I want.”

  
Your eyes darken and our gaze holds for a moment. I’m not sure you realise that you’ve licked your lips in a most suggestive manner. Quickly you rise from your chair.

  
“I’ll be right back. I’m going to see what’s wrong.” You say.

  
I attempt to pull myself together in your absence. Pushing the wine to the side, I grab my water. My eyes wander around the restaurant to watch the patrons. There are a surprisingly high number of illicit affairs taking place. Bring the lover to a show? I think to Dominic last night when I said I was your date. Me, your illicit lover. You, taking the call from Claudia. She demands to know where you’ve been. All you can think about is the smell of my sweat on your body after we’ve spent an afternoon taking each other apart in every way.

  
My thoughts stop as you approach the table. “Everything fine?”

  
You seem disturbed. “She was going to come into the city tonight if I was free. I called back too late.”

  
“She won’t come now?” I ask nonchalantly.

  
“No, she’s a bit annoyed I didn’t call until now. I thought I checked my phone. Guess I was busy.” You scratch your temple.

  
“Are things tense?” I shouldn’t care.

  
You smile weakly. “A bit. She’ll cool off. She knew I was busy this week, so…”

  
You are still bothered though. The crease in your forehead has not smoothed.

  
I redirect and discuss the upcoming week. You attempt to extract more information on Irene, or at least my thoughts on the matter. I have none, really. Irene and I had a sexual relationship years ago as we both struggled for good roles and to rise out of BBC drama obscurity. Irene enjoys control and never liked that I was above all that. She decided that younger more impressionable actors were more to her liking and use. Our arrangement fizzled. It saved me having to put her off and risk angry retaliation.

  
I don’t enjoy talking about my personal life, but your interest has me intrigued. Yes, this is more than professional query. You legitimately want to know about my past. I can’t quite pinpoint the expression as I recount my time with Irene. You reiterate that you will do whatever is necessary if I should become uncomfortable with the working arrangement. It’s almost sweet how you care.

  
We share a dessert again - this time rich cheesecake. I don’t finish my whiskey before we sweep out the door. It takes us forever as we chat with various Broadway royalty. Your ease with me warms every appendage. A gentle hand on the shoulder. The press against my lower back to usher me away from conversation. The casual ‘if I don’t have him get sleep, he’ll be miserable tomorrow’. It feels domestic. I’ve never craved that, but it is nice. I allow it to wash over me for the time being.

"You are incredibly good at all this." I wave my hand at the people.

  
“What? Sucking up?” You quirk a wary eyebrow.

  
“Diplomacy.” I correct.

  
“Are you taking the piss?”

  
“No, I never take the piss. Why do you say that?” I button my jacket.

  
“Because I’ve worked with you for a couple months and you’ve never been this nice.”

 

 

  
The truth stings. I bristle a little. “Well. We’ll be back in London soon where I can be a miserable arsehole.”

  
You offer me that smile that unsteadies me for a bit.

 

  
We walk the few blocks to my hotel. I assure you I am capable of finding my way, but you insist on my safety. Like I don’t survive and thrive in London on my own.

  
Instead of discussing business, we talk about our respective teen years. You marvel at my attending university at 16 years of age. I was on track to hold several degrees by 21. They feared that the pressure would cause me to break and an extracurricular activity was suggested. I had mastered the violin and piano. My parents suggested writing, but I chose acting. I rather liked the idea of putting on a different persona and escaping the stress to live another life. I reveled and flourished. I understood how to give each director the performance they wanted and improve on their vision. Obviously, my family was disappointed.

  
We stop in front of my hotel. Usually, I don’t offer many details of my life before acting. You managed to elicit this information willingly from me. I wish I had not prattled on for so long that I do not get to hear about your wild youth. If I invite you up for a nightcap, we might get to that. But I’m feeling a bit too raw from the evening to invite you. It’s been a lovely time, but I don’t trust myself.

 

 

Once I’m safely behind the door of my hotel room, I sink against the wood. I think of your eyes, lips, scent. I squeeze my eyes so tight they hurt. I remember the music and how it moved me. I run my fingers through my hair. Every part of me feels electric. The ache between my legs returns. This won’t go away unless I handle it - so to speak. I know there is only one person who can release the tension in my loins.

  
I pour a large scotch from the mini bar. I stretch my muscles as I undress slowly picturing your eyes on me. Your parted lip as you take in every inch of skin I present to you. Your fingers curl over your knees in effort to contain your desire. I lie on the bed to offer myself as a sexual sacrifice. You join me, running your fingertips along my sides, my hips and thighs. You take me in your mouth. You’ve never done this, but it’s as if you were born to suck me. You don’t care that my fingers dig into your scalp or that I thrust up and down your throat. You encourage with a growl sending sparks up my cock and to my scrotum. Your finger presses against me. It teases me to push against it, wanting you inside me.

  
I choke as I come all over my hand and stomach. The only sound in my room is my heavy breathing. I use the duvet to clean myself up before I wrap my arms around an overstuffed pillow. I walk through my mind palace and delete my first girlfriend’s name to expand the room that has become yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the song that moves Sherlock
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXCSdpJVe7I


	16. She's a Maneater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene blows in like a hurricane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for taking so long for an update. I was away and had work things to contend with. It's a short chapter, but I do have the next few mapped out in my head. 
> 
> Thank for reading, giving kudos and taking time for comments. I love you all!

London, you keep me right. The gloomy dawn breaks on the city as we land. Instantly, my head clears. Briefly, I revert back glancing at you nestled against my shoulder. You fell asleep over Iceland with your arms crossed and sitting ramrod straight. It didn’t take long for you to tilt and settle against me. I sat awake and listened to every sigh and light snore. 

However, now we are in London - a long way from the beach. You snap awake as the plane hops and jostles you on the landing. You run a hand over your face and look at me sheepishly. 

"Sorry." You mutter.

"Quite all right." I nod. Almost too all right.

There are a few photographers waiting at Heathrow for anyone famous to disembark. Today, it is me with a flat cap on. The steward trails behind me with my luggage. You are to my right lugging your suitcase. It’s not interesting and I’m sure the article will read “Sherlock wears undignified flat cap through airport”.

We don’t talk much in the car. You yawn and lean your head against the glass. Tomorrow, I start filming on Mr. Hunter for the last few episodes of the season. I have two days before Irene joins the cast. 

I drop you off first.

"Thank you," I say.

You are suspicious. “For what?”

"For the beach, the show. Everything. It was a successful trip." I shrug.

"Yes, it was." You smile. "Good night. I’ll see you Saturday." 

You don’t wait for me to respond. Another yawn as you drag your luggage to the door.

 

 

I settle back against the seat. Come on London, I need you to erase these thoughts from my head.

*   *   *   *   *

"Did you sleep at all?" You sip tea from the food service table.

"I did." It’s not a lie - I slept three hours the afternoon I arrived home and four hours last night.

I wait for my turn in the make-up chair. Yesterday was a long day of interior shots. We wrapped at ten at night. I went home with Chinese take away of which I ate some noodles before collapsing to bed.

"Are you okay?" You eye me carefully.

You can see the tension between my shoulders. I give them a roll and nod once. “Just getting into character.”

You snort softly. “Except you are not a method actor.”

"No, but I have ten pages of dialogue to recite." I gesture to my script marked with changes made in red ink.

I hear her before I see her. Your eyebrows arch as I stiffen. Her laugh drifts ahead of her. She’s still beautiful with her dark hair framing alabaster skin. I remember why I slept with her. Her hips sway as she saunters in my direction. 

 

 

"Sherlock. I’m so delighted to work with you again." She purrs as she presses her lips to my cheek.

"Irene, you look well." I brush my lips against her soft skin. 

"Thank you, darling." She steps back to take me in with her eyes. "You still look delicious."

I chuckle. “You always knew the right thing to say.”

"Among other things." Her voice drops.

You clear your throat - in agitation? I can’t exactly pinpoint the emotion on your face. 

 

 

"Irene, this is my new agent John Watson." I turn to you. 

"Pleasure." She marks your cheek with her crimson lipstick. 

"It’s a real pleasure meeting you, Ms. Adler." Your face flushes pink.

You’ve said enough to get her to plant beside you and coo. Irene always loves fresh meat. Something unsettles in me as she makes excuses to touch you. A hand on your arm. A touch to your chest as she tosses her head in laughter. She’s attempting to work you over. She’d have you in her trailer if she could. 

"Come along, John." I say abruptly.

Your head snaps in my direction. “Oh okay. Aren’t you just waiting to get into make-up?” You frown.

"I need to go over these scene changes." I stalk off towards my trailer. I hear you make apologies and trade farewells. Jealousy bubbles inside me and I can’t sort out what I’m jealous of. Irene? You? 

"So that was Irene. She’s quite striking in person." You whistle closing the door behind you.

"Then go bloody shag her." I bark.

You hold up your hands defensively. “Calm down. What’s this about? I thought we were going to be professional.”

I toss myself into my makeup chair. “She is a carnivore. She’d devour you if given the chance.”

You shake your head. “I just flatter her. No, I’d say you are on her menu.”

That doesn’t make me feel better. “We have a kissing scene. Did you see that?”

"I did. But you also kill her in the final five minutes. That has to make you feel good." You offer.

My lips curl slightly. “A bit.”

 

 

"Did she always put you on edge like this?" You cross your arms.

"An edge of some sort. I like things in my past to stay there." I attempt to shove Irene to the attic of my mind. I need to remain passive and professional. It’s bad enough that I’ve let you see me lose my patience. 

When I emerge in makeup for my first scene, I am buoyed by the recent reviews of my latest movie. My part was critical but not principle. The movie itself was received with mixed reviews, but my performance was highlighted as the best thing about the movie. Your added compliments added to my improved mood as I went to film my first scenes with Irene.

Fortunately, she could still be incredibly professional. I do recall her focus on a project could be hawk-like. It was always a treat to watch her work. I noticed that some of the arrogance of her earlier years had polished. She was better at taking direction and suggestions. 

The day flies by as we shoot past dinner. Finally, it’s a wrap. The jetlag from earlier in the week is making my brain fuzzy. I decline Irene’s invitation to accept yours. I do not mention our dinner plans to Irene knowing she has a talent for inviting herself along. 

"How was the first day?" You ask over a salad. 

"Better than anticipated. However, it was only the first day." I sip my wine. 

"She seems harmless." You shrug.

"Watch yourself around her. That is how she operates. Once your guard drops, she goes in for the kill." 

You lean closer. “Is that what she did to you?” 

 

 

"We were younger. I think we used each other equally. The difference is that I’ve moved on." I narrow my eyes. 

"Only two more weeks. And you don’t see her every day." 

"Eight more days shooting." I nod. "You said you had something for me?"

Your eyes light up and I feel that familiar pull in my chest. Being busy has helped with these unwelcome thoughts and feelings. They rush back the minute your lips curl to a grin or your eyes crinkle. 

You dig into your bag and produce a script. “It’s Once. It’s a very rough draft, but I thought you might like to read it and let me know if you’re still interested.” You hold it out to me.

That night, not even a week ago, rushes back to me. I had not felt connected to another person like that in, well, I’ve never experienced an intimate moment while still clothed. 

 

 

"Of course I’m still interested." I glance the first page. "I’ll read it tonight."

"Good. It’s rough, but still good. I heard new songs are being penned for it as well." You tuck into your stew. 

I don’t like lamb stew, but I still pluck the carrots to savour the rich gravy. This is our pattern when we dine together. We order different dishes, but end up leaning close to share our meals. Dessert is discussed and shared. It’s the closest to a relationship I’ve had.

"If there is anything I can do about the Irene situation, let me know." You look up at me.

"Is there anything you can do?" I raise an eyebrow.

You shrug. “I’m not sure, but your happiness is my concern.”

You care so much for people. Claudia, Claire, me, and even your idiot brothers.

"Thank you, John. I think we just need to endure the next eight days." I steal an onion from your stew. You swipe a parsnip from my plate. The rest of the evening unfurls in this comfortable companionship. It’s hard to not imagine how it could be.

 

Post

 

 


	17. Hearts like Ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Curious Life of Mr. Hunter wraps up another season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'll try to get the next bog chapter up soon.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by this song.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gqUJdcCjUIA

John

 

In the few months we’ve worked together, it never occurred to me that I had not seen your flat. You usually come round to mine or we’re out to dinner. You’re not far from where I live. It’s actually a pleasant ten minute walk on a nice summer evening. 

I look at my phone and up at the building. This is 221 Baker Street. I expected a building of steel and glass glittering with success and wealth. 221 Baker Street looks very ordinary from the outside. 

You answer the door in dark blue trousers and a light blue shirt. The sleeves are rolled to your elbows and you pad up a set of stairs in just socks. This must be you at rest.

No, this is not what I pictured at all. The sitting room is cozy with a fireplace at one end and mismatched furniture scattered about. Two well loved chairs sit across from one another angled toward the flat screen television over the fireplace. Along the far wall stretches a beaten leather sofa with a cluttered coffee table in front of it. In an alcove, a heavy wooden desk seems burdened by several books, scripts, your laptop, DVDs and even a few VHS tapes. Through pocket doors, I see an average dining room. The table only has three chairs, meaning you must not entertain here often. The only room that looks relatively modern is the kitchen. While small, dark marble stretches under oak cabinets. All the appliances were top grade and stainless steel.

"Mrs. Hudson threatened to quit if I didn’t make the kitchen workable." You gesture.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I ask.

"Cook and housekeeper. She resides on the first floor." You clasp your hands together. "I could ring her for some tea."

"I’m fine for right now." A hallway stretches from the kitchen to what must be a bathroom and your bedroom.

"You’ve something to say." Your lips twitch.

I shrug. “I’m not sure what I pictured. This is nice. Cozy.”

 

 

"Yes, not like the calculating man that I am." You muttered.

"I never called you cold. You dress impeccably. Very sleek and posh. But your house is…" I chuckle. "a mess."

Begrudgingly, you laugh a little. “Maybe so. I could have lived in any gated high rise I wanted to, this has been home for years. I don’t see ever leaving it.”

"What’s upstairs? The gardner?" I tease.

 

 

"Another bedroom and bathroom. They are unused. I do have a rooftop terrace, but it’s need of some care. Mrs. Hudson has a black thumb." You shake your head.

A strange silence settles between us. You seem nervous to have me here with your eyes darting around the flat. 

"You don’t entertain much, do you?" I ask.

"Are you judging by the state of my flat?" Your eyes sweep around the room. 

"You don’t seem comfortable to have me here. I can just leave the script and go if you like." I reach into my satchel.

"No, I need your help preparing for this role." You step forward to stop me.

I look at you carefully. You just declared you needed help. I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words uttered.

"How about some tea?" I don’t need it, but I think you could use some.

You nod and grin, relieved. “I’ll ring Mrs. Hudson.”

I look to the chairs by the fireplace. The leather chair shows more wear, it must be your favourite. I sit in the cloth chair across it. Your head bobs in understanding. 

Mrs. Hudson is an older woman with a mothering streak. She is warm and doesn’t stop chatting as she bustles about the kitchen. She admits that you rarely have guests and she is glad to finally meet this John Watson. The tops of your ears turn red as she goes on. You bark something about chocolate biscuits, but she ignores you.

Finally, she leaves us to ‘The Work’ as she refers to it. In my satchel, I have the final revisions for Guy Ritchie’s World War 2 drama. Tonight, we will record an audition tape to send Guy. I think it’s a done deal. I’ve been corresponding with Guy, and he’s very keen to meet you.

We do five versions of the scene. It takes three cups of tea, five chocolate biscuits, and two long hours. In the end, you decide the very first take is the best. I pull out my computer to work on compressing the file to send. You pace suddenly uncertain that was the right take. You want to do another. I talk you off the ledge and get you to sit down.

Mrs. Hudson returns to cook dinner. It’s a simple chicken curry, but it smells wonderful. Of course I’m staying, you instruct as you open a bottle of wine. Mes. Hudson doesn’t eat with us, she has plans. We sit at the dining room table and still eat off each other’s plate - even though we have the same exact thing. You eat my carrots and I take your potatoes. We share an apple tart for dinner.

Afterwards, we retire to the chairs in front of the fireplace. We discuss the week’s schedule. So far, filming with Irene has not been as terrible as you feared. You still tense at her name, so it’s possible I am not getting the full story. You have three more days and then the wrap party. You have no interest in going. I offer to tag along if it would make it easier. You grumble a ‘maybe’.

Sensing your blood pressure rising, I change the subject to the rough draft of Once.

"I know it’s not finished, but what did you think?" 

Your eyes soften. “You really see me in this role?”

"I think I could. You can act vulnerable, right?" I smile.

You chuckle. “Act? Yes, I can do that.”

"I’m not sure this is Oscar nominating material. So if that’s the aim here.."

You lean forward. “John, I want varied and interesting work. Awards are not the destination.”

"Good." I relax into the chair. Yes, it’s ugly and smells a bit musty, but it is so comfortable like it was made for me. My eyes catch on a violin beside your chair. "Do you play?"

"Of course. Why would I have it?" You frown.

"People collect things." I shrug.

Your face clouds for a moment as you pick it up. “In fact, I’ve been working on something.”

You stand to face the window. With a breath, you begin to play. I don’t recognise it, but I’ve never been an afficiando of classical music. It’s a very short piece, maybe one minute long.

"That was beautiful." I say.

You quirk a smile. “That was just a warm-up exercise.”

"Oh." I feel my cheeks warm.

The smile drops as you tuck the violin under your chin. A different look dawns on your face. Somehow your body is rigid and fluid at the same time. It takes only a sew seconds for me to recognise the song. It’s Gold - my favourite piece from Once.

My heart races as the song fills my head. It’s even more beautiful as the strings curl around me as one desperate sound. I can’t tear my eyes off of you. The street lights are your spotlight, carving your cheekbones with a silver glow. Your eyes find mine and hold. I’m hot and cold all at once. My fingers curl into the fabric of the chair while I try to hold on to…what? 

The last notes fade into the night, and I realise I’ve been holding my breath. 

"That was amazing." My voice is hoarse.

Your face beams from your smile to your eyes. Your mouth opens to say something. The seconds stretch between us, then the curtain falls. Your expression and face closes off. You offer a smirk before pulling the bow across the strings for a screeching discordant sound. 

"I realise that I would need to learn guitar for the role." You say plainly.

"I bet you could master it easily." 

We have more wine. I convince you to play some more for me. Sometimes you face me and other times you gaze out of the window. I don’t feel my eyes close.

The music has stopped. It’s still except for the ticking of a clock above my head. My feet are warm, but my back aches a bit. I flutter my eyes trying to get my bearings. I must have dozed off while you were playing. I lift my head to see you sitting across from me with a script on your lap and a pen in hand. My feet are propped beside you on your chair, tucked against your leg. Embarrassment fills me immediately. Anyone walking in right now would certainly get the wrong idea. My limbs feel heavy and unwilling to move under my will. You look up from the script to watch me.

I rub my face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pass out on you.”

"It’s fine. You needed the rest." You don’t move.

"Sorry I invaded your chair." I gesture to my feet.

You shrug. “It was fine. You wanted to stretch your legs. I propped them here for you.” Your fingers lightly brush my ankle before gripping the script.

I try not to focus on the leap in my chest or how you look in the low light. I yawn large and loud as I rub my neck.

"I should go home. I am beyond knackered." I remove my feet from their warm resting place. 

"You can stay if you wish." You set the script on a small side table beside a cup of tea.

A thousand thoughts rush to my head. I think to the bedroom at the end of the hall. I glance to the couch.

"I just live ten minutes from here." I blurt.

You shrug casually. “I have the spare room upstairs. The bed is made. It is three in the morning, and taxi service is slow at this hour.”

The spare room. Of course, that is what you meant. I shake my sleep addled head. I am exhausted to be honest. I didn’t relish the thought of all it would take to get me to my bed.

"Okay. I’ll stay." I sink back into the chair.

"It makes no difference to me." But I think that it does.

You lead me upstairs to the third floor. It’s a small hallway with a bathroom on one side and a decent sized bedroom on the other. All the woodwork is cherry, from an ornate headboard to the large wardrobe with mirrors on the door. A Tiffany lamp sits by the bed covered in a rich maroon duvet. It looks normal except for the piano nestled between two long narrow windows.

"A piano, up here?" I frown.

"There was no room downstairs. I had to choose between the desk and the piano. The desk holds more things." Like a good host, you turn down the sheets.

I glance at the sheet music leaning on the piano. “Gershwin?”

"I had just watched An American in Paris." You motion to the bathroom. "There are fresh towels. Mrs. Hudson insists on washing them even though no one is ever up here."

"So you play?" I don’t know why I’m fascinated by this development.

"Sometimes. Another reason it’s on the third floor. I play at night, so it won’t disturb Mrs. Hudson up here." You shift your weight from foot to foot. "Do you require anything else?"

"No." I yawn. "Thank you."

"Goodnight John." Your voice is soft, yet a bit taut.

You leave the door open a crack before shuffling back downstairs. I strip off my jeans and shirt. The sheets are soft and cool. The curtain billow against the night breeze. I feel strange lying in this bed. Why did I stay? I don’t live that far form here. Sure, a taxi would prove to be difficult but I could have walked it. I hear the sound of the violin float into my room. The music fromOnce serenades me. I close my eyes and ignore the tightness in my chest. 

*  *  *  *  *  *

"Good morning." I chirp as I push my way into the trailer with two coffees.

"Buoyant today?" You raise an eyebrow from the makeup chair. A whisper of a smile twitches on your lips. 

"I am. Claudia is coming." Carefully, I hand you a coffee around Desiree who fusses with your curls.

The smile disappears. “When?”

"The weekend. For a proper holiday." I lean against the counter.

"But what about the work?" Red blotches form on your neck and spread to your cheeks.

"It’s the weekend. After the wrap party, we’ve a few days of downtime." I shrug.

"A few days to prepare for the next job. What if we hear from Guy? I need you to be there for a meeting." You snap.

"Sherlock, if that happens of course I will be there. Have I not been at your neck and call? I’ve gone beyond what most agents do. I need some personal time too." Why don’t you like Claudia? You always get selfish when it comes to her. 

You chew on your bottom lip like a child. There’s the Sherlock I know. You’ve been almost eerily pleasant lately. 

"Oi, stop that." Desiree nudges. "Lori will toss a fit if you break skin."

"Just do my hair." You hiss. You glare into your coffee and say nothing more.

The air around the set is bizarre. I chalk up your tension on the big kissing scene you have been dreading. Irene can’t help but tease you which also sets you on edge. I expect you to be downright surly to her, but you take a different tactic. You are almost jovial, and do I detect flirting? This sets me on edge. You’ve been fairly vocal about your disdain for this woman. Now you want to play coy and coquettish? 

 

 

 

The set is hushed anticipation for the moment. The kiss happens under extreme circumstances and is meant to be heated. I watch as Mr. Hunter growls and pulls Annabel to him. He stares into her eyes for a beat before crushing his lips to hers. 

Annabel is supposed to fight then give in. Yet Irene winds her arms around your neck to pull you deeper into the kiss. I feel sickened as her tongue pushes into your mouth.

"Cut! Cut! Irene, that’s not how it’s written." The director groans.

There are some chuckles.

"Sorry. I forgot what a fantastic pair of lips he has." She looks directly at me.

You follow her gaze and sigh. “You are a professional, Irene.”

You are flustered despite your attempts at remaining cool.

The next take, Irene behaves - for the most part. Three more takes and the scene is done. You stalk toward the trailer with Molly scurrying behind you. With a heavy sigh, I turned to glare at Irene.

She offers an unapologetic smile and slight shrug. “You should really try it. He’s quite something.”

 

 

I shake my head incredulously. I knock on the trailer door.

"What?" You erupt.

Molly ducks her head out. “He needs some down time.”

"Even from me?"

 

 

She glances over her shoulder. “Give him five minutes to rage.” She closes the door again.

I lean against the trailer utterly confused. I thought I had a handle on your moods and pressure points. I knew you weren’t thrilled to work with Irene. No one likes facing an ex lover. Was there more to you two than you’ve let on? Did she leave you? Do you still have feeling for her that have been brought to the surface? 

Something similar to a pit forms in my stomach thinking of you pining for Irene. Probably because I don’t trust her. You are my friend and I don’t want to see you hurt. I rub my forehead. Friend. I never imagined referring to you as that. However, it is true that I care about you. There is nothing wrong with that, right? I’ve been friends with a client before. Granted that was how Claudia and I happened.

The creak of the door starts me from my reverie. “You can come in. He’s calmed.” Molly says.

Cautiously, I enter the trailer. You sit in the make up chair looking over the next scene.

"Okay?" I ask.

"Fine." Your eyes don’t leave the page.

"I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it." I offer.

"Affirmative." You cross your legs.

I lean against the counter. “Is there anything you want me to do about it?” 

Your shoulder droop and you glare up at me. “Is there anything you can do John? Can you get her tossed off the set? Get her recast?” You know I can’t do any of those things. “Then leave it.”

"Okay. Fine. You do kill her in the next scene. Perhaps you can ensure many takes of that." 

The corner of your mouth quivers as you fight a smile. “That might work.”

"It is a beheading." I tease.

"Think the machete is sharp enough?" You glance up.

"We can hope." I grin.

*  *  *  *  

You’ve been hot and cold all day. Molly exits the trailer with tear rimmed eyes. Unfortunately, you’ve locked the door and are not answering your phone. I send several strongly worded texts that you ignore. I can’t sort out the reason for the black mood. You’re finished filming with Irene. She’s not even on set today. 

By midday, you mood improves. You accept responsibility and apologise to Molly and Jane today’s hairdresser. When the director announces that it’s a wrap, your smile is genuine. You shake hands and pat backs. It’s a lot warmer than I expect from you. 

"Tell him that he needs to go the wrap party." The director calls.

You glance to me, almost pleading. “I’ve no interest in that. I want a warm bath and a quiet evening.”

I nudge you. “You should go for a bit. One drink. One glass of wine won’t kill you.”

I would learn to eat those words.


	18. Your tongue is like poison, So swollen it fills up my mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wrap party gets out of hand....
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yshUFah31iQ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting for this next installment. It seems like it took forever to get it done and edited. It might not be perfect, but there it is. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it!

John

The night club is dimly lit as one would expect. The producers have arranged for the The Mr. Hunter cast and crew to have free reign of the dance floor and bar for a few hours.

 

 

You watch everyone socialise around our table. The first glass of wine has been consumed and now you’ve moved on to something harder. 

 

 

Irene floats in on a cloud of Chanel with two female handlers. I suppose a wild mare like her needs two. She looks to you hungrily, but sidles to the bar. Nearly every heterosexual male in the club passes her with offers to buy a free drink. We are joined by Molly and Greg. It’s nice to catch up with Greg who has taken on another client while I’ve been managing you. I don’t think that was the original agreement. I’ve become a bit more involved than just an agent. I guess I didn’t understand how monopolizing you could be.

Somehow, I lose track of you. I didn’t notice you getting up from the table. I spot you at the bar with a co-star. You seem be relaxed but I’m sure it’s the gin and tonic helping you. If it makes you more amiable in crowds - so be it. Once I’m no longer worried about you offending anyone with surliness, I relax a bit. The music turns up for dancing, and I enjoy making new contacts for the firm.

I guess I don’t notice that the club has become a bit more crowded and seemingly darker. I can’t recall when I last saw you. My eyes scan the room, but it’s impossible with the crush of bodies milling and swaying. I try text.

Did you leave? Where are you? 

There’s nothing after a few minutes. I find Greg who is several pints into the night.

"Have you seen Sherlock?" I shout over the pulse of the music.

"He was talking with Irene over on the other side of the bar." He points down the long bar.

The mention of Irene causes an icy shiver to shoot down my spine. The other end of the bar is cluttered with people, so I make my way down to find you. You are not there, and neither is Irene. 

"I think he’s dancing." Jane the hairdresser says.

You? Dancing? My head whips around to the packed dance floor. With the flashing lights and bodies in movement, it’s difficult to find you. Eventually, I see a mop of dark hair swaying to the music. Curls are plastered to your forehead, your dark blue shirt is unbuttoned to mid torso revealing a sheen of sweat on your exposed chest. 

Immediately I know something isn’t right. Your slack face and glazed eyes. This is more than gin and tonic fueling you. Rage hurls up from my gut and shoots to my clenched fists. 

I know there had been rumours to past drug use. I never found anything concrete. Now I realise I should have asked or delved in more. 

I’m about to charge onto the dance floor when Irene sidles up from behind. She grinds against your back. Your heads tilts back leaning into her touch. Her fingers rake across your chest. Her eyes are equally glassy. So, did she give this shit to you? 

Irene moves in front of you. She moves against you and places your hands on her arse. Your fingers flex into her flesh. Her hand slips under your shirt as the other curls around the back your neck to pull your face close.

I feel dizzy. You are unbridled and flushed. Seeing you so wild and sexual is unsettling. I know what’s coming next and I feel powerless to stop it. But I don’t want it to happen. My stomach drops as she drags your face to hers. I will you to push her away. Irene is man-eater. She’ll swallow you whole to spit you out. Those were your words exactly.

Instead, you devour her mouth with full lips and plunging tongues. She grinds against you. You clutch at the back of her dress. I know a sober Sherlock would not want this - or at least not so public. A person with a camera phone could see this and have this tryst splashed all over the internet or papers. 

I move swiftly through the sea of people. Your mouth makes a sickening pop as I pull you off her. I thought Irene would be disappointed, but she smiles. 

"Feisty." She purrs.

"Back the fuck off." I growl. "You, come here."

I grab you by the scruff of the neck and lead you down a hallway. I see the Exit and shove you through it. It leads to an alley way. I slam your back against the dirty brick wall. 

"What are you doing?" I pant.

"I was trying to get off." You lean your head back. 

A streetlight at the end of the alley illuminates your neck and the sweat rolling down your chest. 

"With Irene who you wanted to kill just hours before." I shake my head. "Sherlock, what are you on?"

You sigh. “Boring John.”

I step forward. “What are you on? Answer me, you insufferable prat.”

You look at me through dazed eyes. You lick your lips. “I’m not sure. She kissed me and slipped me something.”

"So not coke, your usual." I snap.

You smile a little. “Ah, so you do know.” You take a deep breath. I steady you as you fall forward. My hands rest on your shoulder. Something about your sweat makes my mouth dry. Must be the vodka.

"Mmm. Everything feels alive. Your hands, John. They feel so good on my skin." You purr in my ear.

I clear my throat. “Must be ecstasy or a derivative.”

"My skin feels on fire, like everything is singing." Your knees buckle a little. My hands slip under your arms to support you against the wall. 

You gasp a little. “We need to get you home. The alcohol and drugs are a bad combination.”

Your head drops to my shoulder. “Yes.” Your lips brush my neck. My breath hitches in my chest. I need to get you to bed.

"Can you walk? Should I get Greg?"

You pick your head up to look at me. Those impossible curls flop into your eyes. I don’t see it coming. I feel you lean forward. I think your head is finding a place to rest. Your lips do not feel like what I thought. Not that I thought…but they are soft - not unlike a woman’s. I expect you to jerk away when you realise I’m not Irene. You press your lips harder to mine. 

A large part of my brain tells me to push you away. You are not in your right mind. This is wrong on so many levels. But when your tongue presses against my lips, I gasp and it slips inside my mouth. Your hands slide over my shoulders to my back. My stomach burns like I’ve swallowed acid. For a few seconds, my brains stall. My mouth gives you access. You taste of gin and the sweetness of wine. Your damp torso presses to mine and I feel a moan at the back of your throat. It shoots directly below my belt. 

You press harder and demand more. My fingers curl around your arm. My body is writing checks the rest of me can’t think of cashing. 

"Sherlock. What the hell?" I pant.

"You feel amazing, John." Your voice goes rumbles against my sternum. 

"You are high and have no idea what you are doing." I wipe the sweat from my forehead. "We need to get you out of here. If anyone sees anything, I’ll really be earning my keep or I’ll be fired."

You blink slowly. “I’d never fire you.”

"No, but my brother would." I grab your arm and pull you around front. "We are not going through the club. Let’s get you home."

You are quiet. Perhaps the drug is wearing off. I hail a taxi and deposit you in the back. In your state, I can’t leave you alone. I get in on the other side.

"221 Baker Street." I tell the driver.

You slump against the window and gaze out the window. “She drugged me.”

"Yes she did. I’m sorry I wasn’t there." I say.

"I don’t need a babysitter." You grouse. Your head rolls against the back of the seat. "I need sex, real sex. Not wanking."

"You need sleep. I’ll take care of Ms. Adler." I bite out. My fist clenches against my thigh. She did this to you to fuck you, fuck with you. She’s left you a quivering mess of hormones. The drugs made you kiss me. I can’t think what made me kiss you back.

"I was trying to." You smirked.

 

 

"You want her?" I hiss.

You gaze up at me. “No, I don’t want her.”

I swallow hard and look out the window. “We’re here. Home.”

"Are you going to tuck me in?" You raise an eyebrow.

"I’ll get you in the door. The rest is up to you." I crawl out to fetch you. "I’ll be back." I tell the driver.

I get you to the front door. You are starting to come down from whatever she gave you. Your eyes search my face.

"Sorry." You shrug.

"It’s not your fault. Get some rest. I’ll check on you in the morning." I unlock the door for you. 

You run a hand through the mess of soft curls. “Goodnight John.”

"Night Sherlock." 

I consider tucking you in, safe in bed. My nerve endings twitch. When your door closes behind you, I tumble into the taxi. I lean back in the seat and try not to think of the last hour. I know I’ll go home to have a very confusing wank.

 

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Sherlock

If I had my choice, I would be home. There was a warm bath and anything else to do. The only thing making this bearable is you and alcohol. The first glass of wine goes down like razors. I switch to gin to take the edge off quicker. Perhaps if I can get enough gin into you we can explore what’s behind your lingering glances.

 

 

When Greg joins us, your focus shifts. Molly shreds a napkin while sipping a wine spritzer. She does her job, and keeps me in drinks while you are having bloke talk about football matches. Clearly you are overcompensating.

Through the din of the club with all it’s distractions, I cannot rid myself of the fact that Claudia is coming. I know I have no logical reason to be jealous. She’s your girlfriend. Yet I flinch at such a common word. 

The days following our trip from New York have been relatively uneventful. However I can’t help but feel a shift in your regard for me. It is less client and agent but more colleagues. Perhaps even a friendship. Yet I have had a difficult time sequestering my sexual feeling for you to a locked room in my mind. Every night I take myself in hand with your face behind my eyelids and your name on my lips.

 

 

I knew Irene would come. I had hoped something a bit more glamourous would present itself to her. She cuts through the crowd with a few parasites following her every word and move. From the bar, she beckons me with her eyes. I wish you’d turn your attention to me, but you are engrossed with whatever tedium Greg spouts. I go the toilets.

When I stand, I feel my world is a little off kilter. How many drinks did I have? I’m warm and fuzzy. The experience is pleasant and annoying at the same time. It wears away the roughness but also slips my control from me. 

Pete, the director, catches my ear on the way back to the table. I squint my eyes to see more people have crowded int to the space I had occupied. You don’t seem to notice I’m gone. I accept another drink and some disgusting shot of alcohol.

I know I’m impaired when Irene finds me at the bar. She’s talking but I’m watching her red lips. What she’s saying is not necessary. Claudia is coming and you’ll fuck her every night. She’ll claw at your back and mark your skin. You’ll shower, but I’ll still smell the sex that will never be mine. 

Irene’s hand is on my arm while she talks about how wonderful is to work together again. Her hair brushes my cheek as she leans into talk into my ear. I can’t see you anymore. Too many people block my view. When did it get so crowded?

Irene’s pressed to me. “I think you want some of this. It’s amazing.”

I blink. She never liked coke, but people can change their mind. She pulls away with my drink in her hand. With a devious smile, she puts the glass to my lips. Some dribbles onto my shirt. Her fingers maneuver to the buttons and undo a few. 

I’m compromised, I know. To make this bearable, I am inebriated but now I’m helpless against base needs. I accept her tongue in my mouth and move my lips against hers. It’s not what I want, but what I need. I need to erase you from my head. Losing myself in this will have to do.

She pulls away to place a pill on her tongue. She lunges forward plunging her tongue and the pill in my mouth. It tingles on my tongue as it dissolves. It tastes like chalk. Her teeth clack against mine. Irene used to be better at this.

 

 

She moves away. “We’re going to have fun tonight love.”

I hate the term of endearment from her. Yet, I allow myself to be dragged to the dance floor. The music pumps through my torso and head. Her hands are everywhere - my chest, arms, thighs. Whatever she gave me doesn’t take long to sink into my bloodstream. Every touch sends ripples of pleasure across my skin going straight to my crotch. There’s no doubt I’ll fuck her. It’s just a question of when and where. 

My hands grab her arse while I sink my teeth into her neck.

"Not yet. You haven’t peaked. That’s when." She purrs. Sounds like she’s talking in mud. 

She moves behind me, her hands are on fire. Her nail scrapes my nipple through my shirt. My hips buck looking for friction. The feel of the hands is wrong. I long for strong fingers digging into me. I want to feel the prominent line of an erection against me. 

She pushes my lips onto hers again. I want a scrape of stubble. My hips make contact with hers. I push her against me. I’m desperate for the sensation of touch. 

A large hands clamps on my shoulder and I moan. That’s what has been missing. I feel Irene fall away. When I open my eyes, she’s smiling over my shoulder.

"Feisty." She hisses.

"Back the fuck off." Your voice is in my ear. "You, come here."

Your strong hand clamps around the back of my neck and roughly pushes me forward. I can’t see in front of me, but the heat of your touch burns through my shirt. The blackness disappears as a door opens and I’m outside. Before I can get my bearings, my back makes contact with a brick wall. 

"What are you doing?" Your eyes are on fire.

"I was trying to get off." I’m so aroused, I want you to touch me.

"With Irene who you wanted to kill just hours before." You huff. "Sherlock, what are you on?"

"Boring John." I sigh. I want you to push into this wall and take me as rough as those hands on my shoulder were. 

You move closer. “What are you on? Answer me, you insufferable prat.”

"I’m not sure. She kissed me and slipped me something." My body feels heavy and out of control.

"So not coke, your usual." You shift in front of me.

You did do your research. That’s that you and Greg were so engrossed in. “Ah, so you do know.” 

The world spins and I with it. Your hands grasp my shoulder causing all my nerve ending to scream pleasure. I fall towards you. 

"Mmm. Everything feels alive. Your hands, John. They feel so good on my skin." Your sweat smells divine.

"Must be ecstasy or a derivative." You search my pupils. 

"My skin feels on fire, like everything is singing." Just the scent of you makes me weak. I lose my battle with gravity. Strong arms wrap around me. Your skin slides against mine. It takes everything to suppress a moan.

You clear your throat. “We need to get you home. The alcohol and drugs are a bad combination.”

I sense interest? Arousal? “Yes.” My lips touch your neck and an electric shock courses through me. 

"Can you walk? Should I get Greg?"

 

 

Even in the dark, I see the dilated pupils. It could be many other factors. However my drug addled head will not allow me to see reason. I have been aching for this moment. I’m so charged and out of control. I lean into your lips. I taste beer and vodka. I sense your alarm, but you don’t push me away. It’s enough of an invitation. My tongue caresses the seam of your sealed lips. Let me in, I want to taste the inside of your gorgeous mouth. You gasp, and I have my entrance. I could drink you in all night. Your jaw widens to give me access. Your tongue teases mine tentatively. I can’t suppress the moan that erupts from my stomach. The scrape of stubble stings like tiny needles, but it’s what I missed in kissing Irene. My hips search for friction. I want to feel the bulge that must be growing. Would you let me touch? I want to get you off right here. To hear your choked sobs against my neck as I bring us to climax together. What would you do if I dropped to my knees and took you in my mouth? I want your fingers digging in my scalp, guiding me until I have to swallow every bit of your release. 

You break, face covered in sweat.

"Sherlock. What the hell?"

"You feel amazing, John." I bend to press my lips to the tender part of your throat. You kissed me back. You want this.

"You are high and have no idea what you are doing." You can’t look at me. "We need to get you out of here. If anyone sees anything, I’ll really be earning my keep or I’ll be fired."

"I’d never fire you." I want to keep you forever. I chose you.

"No, but my brother would." You grab my arm to tug me down the alley "We are not going through the club. Let’s get you home."

You are embarrassed, I can see it in your movements. I felt you come alive under my touch. Or was it the drugs? I know you kissed me. 

"221 Baker Street." You sound cross.

Fuck, I’ve ruined everything. “She drugged me.”

"Yes she did. I’m sorry I wasn’t there." You say.

"I don’t need a babysitter." I snap. I’m still hard as a rock. I want to bury myself inside you and never come up for air. "I need sex, real sex. Not wanking."

"You need sleep. I’ll take care of Ms. Adler." You hiss. Your hand curls into a fist as you glare out the window.

"I was trying to." I mumble.

"You want her?" Your head twists in my direction.

How can you not see? “No, I don’t want her.” It seems like ages that we stare. I want to tell you how much you’ve come to mean. Irene was a poor substitute for you. If you come in, I’ll need nothing else.

"We’re here. Home." You turn away.

"Are you going to tuck me in?" I purr. Perhaps I can seduce you.

"I’ll get you in the door. The rest is up to you." You rush out of the taxi as if it was set to explode. "I’ll be back." 

The haze begins to dissipate. I glance to you to gauge my next move. 

"Sorry." I mumble. I don’t reckon that you want to be seduced. I probably repulsed you. I’ve misjudged.

"It’s not your fault. Get some rest. I’ll check on you in the morning." Tenderness creeps into your voice.

"Goodnight John." For a moment, I consider leaning forward one more time - just to press an appreciative kiss to your cheek. Instead, I blink numbly willing you not to leave.

"Night Sherlock." I watch you climb into the taxi and drive away.

Fuck! I slam the front door. Mrs. Hudson is away for the weekend, so I won’t disturb her. 

I drag myself up the stairs with a heavy weight against my chest. I’ve ruined everything by being out of control. The comfortable ease in our relationship has been destroyed. Will we share a meal again? Will it ever be like that again?

I toss myself in my chair. Your taste lingers on my lips. Your lips moved against mine. Your tongue brushed mine. Or am I too high? The tingling sensation on my skin is replaced with an ache, almost a burn. The memory of you being so close and your hands has me hard again. Now it’s almost painful. I need release. 

My hand travels down my chest to the bulge in my trousers. I imagine if you reached between us to rub me. Your tongue teasing me as your lips leave a wet trail from my mouth down my neck. 

"John." My head falls back. It’s easier to fantasize now that I know what your lips feel like. 

 

 

I undo my trousers to slip my hand inside. Everything hums and rings. However, the ringing is distracting. I realise the ringing is the door. Have you come back?

Quickly, I do up my trousers. It’s quite painful now. I take a few deep breaths and make my way downstairs. Why did you change your mind? Are you here to check on me? Quit? Indulge both our fantasies? 

The stairs swirl in my vision. The drinks and whatever Irene gave me seem to be getting stronger. If we have sex tonight, I hope I remember it.

With great anticipation, I yank open the door. Excitement falls to disappointment.

"I knew you’d be peaking around now." Irene purrs with her gaze at the erection bulging in my trousers.

"What are you doing here? What did you give me?" I demand. 

"Nothing addictive darling. I know better than that." She pushes past me to climb the stairs. 

I glance around outside. The streets are deserted.

"Come on, darling. Were you expecting someone else?" Her tone is mocking.

I close the door. “I wasn’t expecting you. I was going to bed.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Really? You weren’t going to give that any attention? It’d be such a waste of a good high.”

"One I didn’t ask for." I counter yet follow.

"You accepted it right from my lips." She disappears into my flat.

I could have spit it out, that’s true. The lights, drinks, music and you had me all twisted inside.

Irene preens on my leather chair. This is better than wanking to just the memory of a kiss. Irene will not expect anything tomorrow. And this erection is starting to burn. Might as well get relief.

I take her hand and pull her to the sofa. She pushes me down and climbs on top of me. I lift her skirt to feel she’s already damp. She presses herself to my bulge and grinds down. I pull her mouth on mine and I’m immediately disappointed. I miss your taste and scrape of a faint beard. Her lips are slimy compared to you. 

Like a train, the drug hits me. I’m ravenous for her, for it. There is a push and pull of clothes as they pile up on the floor. I’m kissing taut nipples against my wishes. Her nails did into my scalp, playing me like an instrument she created. Everything swims together. I feel her slip a condom on me, then heat surrounding me seconds later. I buck my hips, but I feel like I’m pumping into a black hole. Her breasts bouncing in my face distract me. Her keening sounds like caterwauling. My erection softens, but the need is still there. Now I wish I has just masturbated. At least, it’d be you.

It hits me that I won’t get off like this. I pull her off me, and move behind her. My palm rests between her shoulders bending her over.

"You want me like this, interesting." She coos.

I offer no warning as I plunge inside her again. I’m not gentle. There are no caresses. I grab her hips tightly and pump into her. I try to ignore the curve of her hips or the never ending softness that’s not giving me that I need. 

It’s working for her though. She’s pushing back against my thrusts. 

"Oh Sherlock! Oh yes! Oh! Oh!" She screams. She tightens around me. 

Her voice cuts through me. Why does she have to be a screamer? She’s still working through her orgasm when I pull out. I don’t prepare her or ask permission. I line myself up and push in. She gasps at the intrusion. I pause for a moment to give her time to tell me to fuck off or stop.

"This is what you need now?"she pants. "You aren’t fucking me at all, are you?"

My fingers dig into her flesh. I close my eyes to remove auburn hair cascading down a slender back. I think of square shoulders bracing themselves against the sofa. My thighs resting against muscular thighs covered in coarse hair. A deep voice moaning my name and grunting as I hit your prostate again and again. I think disappearing between your taut buttocks. Your neck craning back as you search for my mouth. 

All my cells explode with electricity. This is the bliss I was promised. 

"Fuck!" I rage as I slam into Irene to completion.

"Feel better love?" She asks.

I pant behind her. The image of you heaving for breath under me melts into her spine. 

"Sorry." I mutter insincerely. It’s her fault for forcing this on me. 

We move away from each other. This didn’t go as she wanted. She envisioned a night of lazy lovemaking with us curled together - like before. The two of us exploring our bodies and our high. She didn’t expect love, but at least some tenderness. One night when she could bury her loneliness in another solitary person. 

"You’re a bit hung up, I’d say." 

I ignore her and gather my clothes. “Do you want to shower first?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Not together, like old times?”

I look away. I am trying hard to not show her the door.

"I guess not." Her voice is low. "I’ll go first."

When the bathroom door closes, I snatch my phone from the table. 

Hope you get some sleep - JW

I press the phone to my forehead. You sent this ten minutes ago, from home. Probably from your bed. 

Irene sings in the shower and takes much more time than necessary. She emerges from the steam in one of my dressing gowns. 

I say nothing and head into the bath to scrub myself of this memory. I want nothing to smell like her. While scrubbing myself raw, I crash from the high of orgasm and the drugs. My mouth feels like the bottom of a movie theatre. I steady myself against the tiles to not vomit. I formulate the conversation to have when I am done. I need to tread lightly. She’s already figured my attraction to you. If she wants to use that information for her advantage, she will. 

I take a deep breath and open the door. I expect to find her curled up on my chair and attempting to hack into my laptop to see what scripts I’ve received. Or in my bed hoping for another round. A soft snore brings my attention to the sofa. Irene is fast asleep in my dressing gown.

I scratch the back of my neck. Fine, this conversation can wait until tomorrow. I take a glass of water with me into the bedroom and close the door. I don’t bother to turn down the sheets. Tucking my hands behind my head, I stare at the ceiling. Compound chemicals float through my head. I break them down and create new formulas. After all this time, chemistry still calms me. I will do this till morning breaks of I need to. It will keep me from remembering sex with Irene or romanticizing my kiss with you. 

The heat of another body wakes me. Irene presses herself along the length of my back. Her hands are tucked behind me as she knows better than to wrap them around me. Immediately, I’m agitated by this breach of privacy. I didn’t want her in this flat let alone my bed. I roll off the bed carefully to not rouse her. It’s still dark and it would be impolite to evict her now. I pull on some pajama bottoms and take refuge in the den. The pillows are still crumpled from where she had curled before. 

I flop myself down which still smells of her. The daylight cannot come soon enough. An awkward conversation is to come. I sigh heavily. A few when I think of it. I hope I haven’t ruined everything. As my mind clears, I’m comforted by the fact you didn’t shove me away, but this sits between us forever. I know how you feel and what you taste like. That will never disappear. 

I cover my eyes with arm and map out that apology I need to give you. It’s more important than the one Irene and I will have in a few hours.

 

Post

 

 


	19. When It's All Over, We Still Have to Clear Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the party and Claudia's visit clash like stars in the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. This was a long chapter compared to some. I am still writing and have lots to still tell. So thank you for not giving up and following John and Sherlock's epic journey. 
> 
> Here is the video that inspired the title. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cpHsUi016RY

John

 

 

I have no idea why I’m standing in front of Baker Street with two coffees in hand. I stare up at the windows. The curtains are still drawn. I look at my watch: nine o’clock. You are probably still passed out or with your face in the toilet. 

As I suspected, it was a strange night of masturbation and odd thoughts. I tried to concentrate on Claudia. Her red mouth wrapped around me. Instead, your full lips plagued my thoughts. Your ocean eyes peering at me through dark curls. I felt ashamed when I came all over my hand with a strangled cry. 

With my head spinning, I passed out in my own sticky mess. My eyes popped open in the predawn hours and I just stared at the telly. I watched Friends until I felt I would scream. Plus, I ran the risk of my pants being permanently fused to me if I didn’t shower. I didn’t want to think about tending to my morning erection but when the water hit my back, I couldn’t stop the images. They were like the ones that plagued me the night before but now you were wet. And I cannot help but choke out your name as I orgasm.

I want to be certain that you didn’t asphyxiate on your own vomit. Or worse, have a reaction as you were coming down. I don’t know what she gave you and anything is possible. 

I stand there for five minutes. The people passing give me odd glances. I take a deep breath and prepare to ring your flat. 

The door swings open. I expect to see your wild eyes and hair. 

"Oh, John dear!" Mrs. Hudson exclaims. 

"Hello, Mrs. H. Is his nibs up yet?” My voice sounds unusually high.

"I just got in myself. I heard the shower running so he must be up." She leans to stare in my face. "Did you both have a late night?"

"It was the wrap party for the show." 

She hums. “Your eyes look a little red, dear.”

"Good I brought coffee then." I grin cheerfully.

"I’m off to the shop.” She pushes past me. “Let the master know. He’ll be wanting chocolate biscuits.”

The door closes behind me. The stairs never looked so steep. With the rolling knots in my stomach, I'm not sure I will be able to drink this coffee. Okay, it's time to face the morning. It is possible you won’t remember that kiss. I was drunk and you were drunk and high. Strange things happen at wrap parties. I’ve had to hide plenty of odd indiscretions. My stomach rolls again. What if someone saw us? 

Before the sun came up, I scoured the internet, blogs, Twitter and Tumblr for anything on the party. There were some grainy mobile phone photos of you entering the bar and one of Irene at the bar. There was nothing that I could see of your display on the dance floor. I swallow hard. Or of our alleyway moment.

I climb the stairs with legs of lead. I can only imagine your mood today. With my hand hovering for a knock, the door flies open. 

"Yes Mrs. Huds- oh, John." You go from furious to shocked.

I plaster on a goofy grin. “Morning to you, sunshine.”

You are quite a sight to behold. I’ve seen those curls in various states of mussed but you look like a mad scientist. Your dressing gown is wrinkled suggesting you’ve slept in it. 

"I brought coffee," I chime.

You wince. “I see.” There is a pause. “Listen, I’m a bit ill this morning. I appreciate the gesture but…”

"Of course." My cheeks warm. "I should have rang."

"No, this was very kind of you." Another pause but with a grimace.

Should I bring it up first?

"Last night…" I start.

You hold up a hand. “It was most unforgivable.” Your mouth twists in irritation.

Why do I feel…disappointed? 

"We can discuss this a bit later." Your hand doesn’t leave the door and you don’t step aside to allow me in. 

"Uh, sure, sure." My face is burning.

"Well darling, it’s been grand as always," a female voice drifts up from behind you. 

Your eyes close and you let out an exasperated sigh. The reason for rushing me away is suddenly clear. 

"I see." I mutter.

Your steely stare pleads with me. “John…”

Irene floats over in last night’s dress but freshly showered. She snaps one of the coffees.

"He is godsend, isn’t he?" she coos.

Our gaze holds. I’m the one to look at her. 

"Sorry to interrupt." I clear my throat.

She laughs with her entire body. “Please. We were done hours ago.” Her eyes walk over me in a way they never did before. “In fact…”

"I’m sure you have things to do," you snap.

"Of course, love." She pats your cheek. "It seems I’m interrupting. It was lovely working with you again, Sherlock." She moves closer to your ear. "And playing again."

 

 

Your jaw tightens. I’ve never seen you so stiff.

"Take care of him, John. He’s a bit special." She slips on her heels. 

"Irene," you nod.

As she brushes past, she turns to face you. Winding her hand into your hair, she crushes her lips to yours. I can’t tell if you kiss her back. I drop my eyes. She hums into your mouth before she pulls away, leaving lipstick stains on your lips. 

Without another word, she sweeps down the stairs.

With the back of your hand, you wipe your mouth. You seem repulsed.

"Go ahead and say it." You toss yourself into your black chair.

"Did you call her?" I’m not sure why that matters.

"No. She turned up twenty minutes after you left me," you state accusingly.

"Pardon?" I sit down across from you. "Wasn’t the experience you hoped?"

"No, far from it." Your eyes bore into me. Seconds seem endless as the clock ticks above our heads. You roll your eyes. "But it was better than masturbating."

I hope you don’t notice my blush. I clear my throat. “Are you, you know, a thing?”

You frown. “A thing?”

"Dating. Together. These are the types of things I need to know for press. For instance, was she spotted doing the walk of shame down your street?"

You rub your head. “Don’t know and don’t care. I don’t date. I don’t engage in sexual relations of any sort. Last night would not have happened at all if she hadn’t drugged me and you hadn’t left me.”

I chuckle. “I might take some small responsibility in not watching your drinks. You didn’t need to open the door to her.”

You sulk. “I wasn’t expecting her.”

 

 

"Then who were you expecting?" My heart begins to race.

You blink slowly a few times. “I thought something was left in the taxi.”

I can’t tell if you are lying. My head buzzes with silly notions. I lean closer to hand you the coffee I’ve been holding.

"This one is yours. Irene took mine." 

Our fingers tangle for a moment. “We can share.”

I wrinkle my nose. “You take yours too sweet.”

"I can make you some if your would be kind enough to get me something for my head." You lean forward.

"Deal." I try not think about the relief I feel that you didn’t enjoy your night with Irene. 

As I make my way to the bathroom, I see your bedroom door open. I shiver to think what transpired in there last night. I expect that heavy smell of sex but it’s just your expensive bath gel. 

You make coffee and I hand you two paracetamol. We aren’t going to talk about the alleyway. Perhaps that’s best. It’s clear that you have many regrets. Kissing a bloke is among them. We don’t talk about Irene either. Instead, we focus on the work. The Once Musical is slowly gathering some funding. Your name is not even among the long list for leads. It’s my job to get you on the short list. Now that the show has wrapped, you have some downtime. This makes you anxious. I’m guessing part of your drug habit springs from an idle hands and a bored mind. BBC Radio has been after you to take part in their presentation of Truman Capote’s True Blood. You actually seemed very keen for that.

"I had such a small part in that film," you sigh.

"It’s a big premiere for the festival. Many connections to make." I stretch my legs. How long have I been here? "We’ll fly from LA to Toronto since they are a week apart.” Your face is sour. “If you get invited to a festival and you are not in the middle of filming another movie—you go. You always go.”

"Fine," you huff. "Are you hungry? I think I am."

"You think?" I raise an eyebrow. Rarely do you mention a meal. "Must be from all the activity last night."

That came out a bit more bitter than I wanted.

You stand. “It wasn’t as rigorous as you think.”

I hold up a hand. “Don’t want details.”

"Are you sure? You seem transfixed." There is a challenge in your voice.

My phone buzzes. 

I’m about to land. Can’t wait to see you. XX 

"I have to go. Claudia’s about to land."

"Ah yes. I forgot about your guest." You move to the kitchen. "I won’t be seeing you this week, will I?"

"Of course you will, if you need to. Right now, there’s not much going on. You’ve some down time,” I smile.

You sigh heavily. “I loathe down time. Idle minds, John, do the devil’s work.”

"I thought it was the hands." 

"The brain controls the hands." You stare at a spot on the rug. 

"Unless altered, right?" I tease.

Your eyes roll so hard the blue disappears completely. “I need another shower.”

I pause with my hand on the doorknob. “I’ll ring later?”

"If you can detach yourself long enough," you smirk humourlessly. 

"Some of us didn’t get a leg over last night." I wink.

The parting look you give sends a chill down my spine and stays with me until I see Claudia’s soft form materialize through the arrival gate. I gather her up in my arms and breathe in her floral scent. She presses her thin lips to mine, and guilt blooms in my chest. I remember the feel your fuller and surprisingly softer lips. I feel guilty for thinking of you, for the fact the kiss happened at all. 

Claudia does most of the talking on the ride home. Her hands gesture wildly as her voice climbs with excitement. I smile and nod trying to focus on her words against the buzz in my head. 

Claudia’s mouth falls open as she enters the flat. “John, this is absolutely gorgeous.”

I think back the day you brought me to this place. Your selling point was how she would love it. I shake my head to clear your voice.

"Thank you." I set her bag by the stairs.

"Did you decorate?" She spins around, taking in the furniture, fixtures and paintings on the wall.

"No, it came furnished. It was suggested that I had not the time or taste to decorate on my own," I grin.

"Harry?" She asks.

"No." I don’t want to bring you up to her for fear that my blush will betray me. "Harry hasn’t seen it."

"Are you leasing?" 

"No, the firm purchased it. So if Harry were to come, he’d stay here." I wish I could say this was all mine. Harry could in fact offer this to a client and I’d be at a hostel.

"It’s quite lovely. How many bedrooms?" She moves closer.

"Two upstairs. A den with a day bed around the corner." My arms wrap around her slender waist.

"Which bedroom is mine." She pecks my lips.

"Hopefully the one I’m in." I nip her neck.

"Show me." She nibbles my ear.

Her skin is soft under my fingers. I’m desperate to get into her knickers. I kiss every bit exposed flesh as I undress her. I know every sigh and gasp. We play each other like familiar instruments. I know what she’ll do when suck her nipple. I can predict how long she’ll wait to slide her hand down my trousers. She’ll prefer that I take her in the traditional sense. She guides my hand between her legs to play with her until she’s ready. Her hand finds the condoms even in a room she’s never been in. I ease in slowly, she never likes things too rough. Her hips meet mine in perfect time. 

After not having proper sex in weeks, I won’t last long. I bury my face in the hair pooled beside her on the pillow. My hips snap faster as her voice climbs to an almost shrill keening. I close my eyes and think of dark brown eyes and perky breasts. We say the same exclamations. A string of “oh Gods” peppered with a few ”fucks” from me. It’s like coming home in a sense.

What is different is that as my balls tighten and my stomach burns, brown eyes become blue. In my mind, I fist dark curls while looking at the taut muscles of your shoulders. A deep gasp escapes from perfect lips. 

Oh fuck, indeed.

I pant against her neck while my head spins. Her fingers dance along my spine as she murmurs in ear.

*   *    *   *   *

Eventually we emerge from the bedroom to order take away and relax. It’s all short lived as the texts start to arrive.

'What time is my appointment tomorrow? - SH

Ask Molly - she’s your assistant - JW

Where is the Once script - SH

In ur iPad - JW

Ur? SH

YOUR - JW

Ur not a child - SH

U R - JW

Am I interrupting afternoon coitus? SH

Fuck off. If I was u r not helping - JW

It goes on like this for 48 hours. There is no question too stupid or inane. You ask me how to find ‘Breaking Bad’ on the telly. The most ridiculous requests, really. With each phone call and text, Claudia’s knuckles whiten and her eyes roll.

"He really can’t take care of himself, can he?" She sighs.

"No," I grumble in my morning tea. 

Odd thing is, alone in my flat or at the office, I don’t mind. I chuckle and shake my head as I type my answers or comments on your musings. Sitting across from Claudia, it’s harder to be amused.

To be fair, she came all this way to spend time with me. I know I’m damned lucky that a beautiful actress like her would want to spend even just five minutes with me. I’m nothing special, I know that. I’m short in comparison with nothing striking about my appearance. Typical blue eyes and sandy blonde hair. I can name a dozen better looking men in my block. Yet, when she sighs heavily I find myself annoyed—with her and not you. Why can’t she understand that this is my work? 

Again my mobile buzzes against the kitchen table. 

Claudia rolls her eyes dramatically. “What does himself want this time?”

I glance at the screen and see a number I’ve never seen. “It’s not him. John Watson.”

"John Watson? Guy Ritchie here." The voice says.

My mouth drops open. Claudia’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"I was just watching the audition your boy made," Guy continues.

I glance at my watch. He’s doing this at eight in the morning?

"I’m thrilled you took time to watch it." I mouth ‘Guy Ritchie’ to Claudia. 

"I love the Mr. Hunter series. I know it’s short notice, but could we meet today?" Guy asks.

"Of course. I just need to get a hold of Sherlock. What time works for you?" I scramble for any scrap of paper I can find. 

"Five o’clock should give you enough time to hunt him down, yes? We can talk over dinner at my house."

Dinner at his private residence? This is very promising indeed. My mind is racing as I jot down the address. I am beaming as I get off the phone and see Claudia’s cold glare.

"Guy Ritchie!" I exclaim excitedly.

"We have dinner reservations tonight." She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

"C’mon Claudia, you know how it is. When a director says jump, you reply ‘off what?’. This movie has big potential for Sherlock and for me." She has to understand.

"I leave tomorrow. It’s our last night," she whines.

"I’ll see you in Toronto. It’s only a few weeks away." I reach for her hand.

"I just felt like you weren’t present for my trip." Now she is pouting like you.

"I’m trying to make a name here, and in Hollywood." I take her hand. "Please understand. I always tried to give you space when you were filming."

She nods slowly. “I know. And you’ve had clients before, just never so demanding.”

"He’s going to be huge, and I have the opportunity to be apart of it." 

She smiles weakly. “I know. You’ve done a great job. Go. Do your thing.”

I’ve already typed out a text to you. 

Call me ASAP. Guy wants to meet today - JW

Quickly, I shower and find my most capable casual clothes. I don’t want to seem too eager. I look at my phone and there’s no answer from you. I call and listen to your ring back tone—Wagner. Pretentious prat.

"Please tell me you are around. We’ve a meeting with Guy. Call me back." 

Claudia decides to engage in retail therapy, in a bit of a huff. I get a chaste peck as she leaves for the shops.

Another thirty minutes pass. I call Molly. It’s been a day since you’ve barked orders at her to gather your dry cleaning. You haven’t talked to Greg either. 

I send another text and listen to Wagner again before I decide to gather you from Baker Street. I only hope you are home. Though we’ve spoken a few times, I haven’t seen you since the morning after. You could’ve been taken hostage by Irene for all I know.

I can hear music playing as I walk under your windows. It’s classical but I’ve never heard it. At least you are home. My imagination races with a hundred things that could keep you from your phone. The most disturbing ones has you and Irene lazing naked after sex. I shake my head. You made it clear that she had been a mistake.

When I raise my hand to knock, I notice the door is cracked open. Having no clue as to what I’ll find, I push forward and head upstairs. Your door is closed. I listen carefully for sounds that I should not interrupt. It’s hard to make out anything over the music. I take a deep breath and knock. I hear muffled curses and bustling behind the door. The door yanks open.

"Yes?" When you see me, the agitation melts to confusion. "John, what are you doing here?"

 

 

I try to peak over your shoulder. “Don’t you have your mobile? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

Bizarre smells emanate from the flat. With a slight roll of your eyes, you push back to the kitchen.

The flat is messier than usual - or at least the kitchen is. There is a large pot steaming on the stove. On the kitchen table, various tubes are filled with an amber liquid.

"Are these experiments?" You’ve talked about being a brilliant chemist at university. It wouldn’t shock me if you still dabbled.

"No." You frown. "It’s ale. Belgian, to be exact.”

I blink a few times as I process. “You are brewing beer?”

"Doesn’t it look like that?" You turn to place a fancy looking thermometer in the boiling pot. 

"Not many people brew in silk shirts and expensive trousers."

You snort. “Savages.”

"Is this a hobby?" I watch you make notes in a book.

"Mostly wine. We own a vineyard. When I’m bored, I make wine. In fact, I have a bottle ready for consumption." You glance up through those unruly waves of dark hair. You gesture to the stove behind you. "This is my first beer."

I laugh. “You were bored so you thought you’d learn to make beer? You don’t even drink beer.”

"But you do," you answer simply.

"You’re making this for me?"

"Yes. I know you prefer lagers but I currently don’t have to proper refrigeration to make one. I hope you will settle for a Belgian Dubbel." 

My cheeks burn with…gratitude? Embarrassment? “You made a beer for me. That’s very,” romantic, “nice.”

You are pleased. “I had some downtime and wanted to learn something new.”

"It’s a first for me." I take stock of the grains, vials and different instruments in the kitchen. "It looks time consuming."

"I’ve been at this for at least four hours. It’s average." The frown returns. "Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be having a sex holiday with Cosette?"

"Claudia." I correct you. It reminds me why I’m here. "Where is your bloody phone?"

You sift through notes and papers and bags of grains. Buried in the corner of the counter is your mobile—flashing violently.

"I’ve been trying to reach you, you great git! Guy Ritchie called and wants to meet."

"He does?" Your voice pitches higher than I’ve ever heard it.

"We have a meeting at five." I look to my watch. 

"Bollocks. Two and a half hours. I’m not done. I have to chill the beer, take more readings." You fidget.

"Fuck the beer," I growl. Hurt strikes your eyes and stabs my heart. "I mean, this is an amazing gesture but this is your work."

You contemplate the next step. Abandon the beer or the meeting.

"Listen, can I help? Will that make this go faster?" I begin to unbutton my shirt.

"Yes. What are you doing?” You sound alarmed.

"Helping, but I don’t have the luxury of being able to change if I make a mess.” Carefully I lay my shirt in the sofa. “Do you have a spare vest in case this one stains?”

Your eyes flutter. “Uh, y-yes.”

A quick glance at your face reveals a blush? The kitchen is very stuffy from all this malty steam. I lick my lips nervously.

"Come on. What do we do next?" 

We work in harmony as we chill the amber liquid. You give me a taste of beer in its rawest form. It’s flat and a bit sweet. As you work, you explain the process, from choosing certain grains and malts to the fermentation process. 

"There are so many things you can do with ale that you can’t with wine." You seem very engrossed in the process for someone who won’t touch the stuff. And I listen, enraptured. Is it that I love beer or your enthusiasm in sharing? 

Finally, John’s Juice, as you teasingly name it, is placed in a large class jug to start fermentation. It won’t be ready until after the Toronto Film Festival. While you shower, I clean up the kitchen. You wave your hand and tell me it’s Mrs. Hudson’s job, but I feel bad leaving it for her. 

The bathroom door opens and you emerge from a plume of steam in charcoal grey trousers and that impossible plum shirt. There’s a catch in my chest that feels like a fishing hook. 

"How is this?" you ask.

"Perfect." That gets me a raised eyebrow. I correct myself quickly. "It’s fine."

You search my face. “Do you want to freshen up?”

I nod. “Good idea.” Miraculously, I did not spill or splash anything on me. My hands do smell like a brewery—yeasty and malty. [but not earthy ;)]

The scent of your body gel lingers in the humid air. I’ve used this loo a few times, but it feels different today. Shaking my head, I wash my hands and forearms. I splash water on my face and reach for a towel. Your smell overwhelms my senses. I never gave much thought about all this before. I pull myself together with a few shakes of my head. It’s all fine.

You pace from the kitchen through the den. In the taxi, your hands don’t stop moving. You rub your thigh or scratch your knee. One legs bounces while your fingers tighten and release your trousers.

I give your arm a light squeeze. “It’s going to be fine.”

"I know that," you snap, but immediately look apologetic. “I know.”

It’s a big role in a big movie. Large names are attached to the project like George Clooney, Ben Affleck, Jake Gyllenhaal. It has big potential to clean up during awards season in few years.

"I wonder if Madonna lived here," I muse as we pull up to a sizable stone cottage. 

"Who?" you ask.

"Madonna, the singer, actress…" I offer.

You snort. “I think the only person to call her an actress was her.”

"Well, she was married to Guy. They have a few kids. So be mindful of that.”

Guy is a soft spoken man but there’s an energy bubbling underneath. He discusses the movie passionately. It’s different from his other movies—straight World War 2 drama. There is very little action, unlike his previous movies.

Guy serves a melon and prosciutto salad before a salmon dish. You are coiled tightly but at least polite. You know the importance of impressing Guy. I place my hand on your arm to ease the tension in your shoulders. It works like a stiff drink. The muscles of your arm ease their tension, and the rest of your body follows suit. 

Guy talks about his vision for the film. You add some carefully constructed thoughts. If you disagree at all, you mask it well. I can practically feel your hunger for this role. To think that you raised an eyebrow when I mentioned it.

"Sherlock, it was wonderful meeting you. As soon as we can draw up a contract, I’ll be in touch." Guy extends his hand as we hover by the door.

"I look forward to it." You smile. 

Guy gives me a nod. “John, always a pleasure. Good luck at the Emmys.”

"Oh, it’s just an honour to be nominated, right?" Your lips quirk up wryly.

He pats your arm. “Better get used to it.”

We tumble to the back of the car and each let out a long held breath.

"That was amazing," I beam. "You were perfect. Just charming enough to not be an arse kisser."

You nudge me. “I had the best agent lobbying for me in there. I’m only as good as your lead.”

The compliment knocks the wind from my lungs. The crinkle around your eyes softens as you glance in my direction. I clear my throat, feeling the car turn stuffy.

You clasp your hands together. “This might be cause for a celebration. Angelo’s?” 

"Sounds perfect." And then I remember Claudia. I steal a look at my phone and see two missed calls and three unread messages—all from Claudia. ”Ehm, can we postpone the celebration dinner? I’ve got to get back. She leaves tomorrow and…” 

Your shoulders square off and your eyes stare ahead. “Of course. Dinner can wait. Best to get you home.” 

The chill in your voice is not masked. I’m torn inside. I want to go to Angelo’s and toast our success. I know that I share this with you. You always make me feel like this is a partnership. 

The mood in the car shifts. Your disappointment is palpable. I want to fill this space between us. It’s my turn to twitch nervously. What is going on with me? I’ve never felt this affected by a client. However, you were never just that, were you?

 

 

"I’ll make a reservation for tomorrow night," I offer cheerfully. "She leaves early, so does seven work?”

I can’t decipher your sigh. Your head turns to me. “That sounds fine…good. Tomorrow then.”

It’s a sad, perhaps a lonely smile. 

"Great work, Holmes." I bump my leg against yours.

You press yours to mine. “Likewise, Watson.”


	20. Strange Currencies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to navigate Sherlock through his first American awards show.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYo2GtEvMQI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and for reading this story. I try to give my best while writing and I appreciate more than you know for anyone who stops by to read my story of John and Sherlock. I did a lot of plotting (with some help) so it's going to get good. Or at least I think. 
> 
> Anyway, here is the latest chapter. Thank you again! I love you all!

Sherlock

I loathe these things. I stand in a line with other British actors to be interviewed and fawned over. It’s too hot and I furtively wipe my brow. The only good thing about this is you. This is your element, among the stars. You slice through the crowd like a hot knife. Actors gravitate to you. They have either worked with you or are searching to employ you. My gaze is possessive, I know. With a reassuring hand on my arm, you introduce me to them. I affect my most charming smile as I shake hands and ‘network’. I was never bothered to engage with industry people, but you have impressed upon its necessity.

It seems to take ages to move through the line of journalists and photographers. I’m parched from answering the same banal questions. Press junkets are equally hateful.

I get a drink from the bar while your ear is taken by a director. You laugh and lay a hand on his shoulder. It’s amazing how easy you are with people. If I had my choice, I would interact with very few individuals - mostly just you. Yet you seem to draw people in. You lean closer as the conversation gets to business. Right now you are asking about future projects and deciding if it will be something I should consider. Your eye catches mine with a small grin. My stomach drops a few inches. Your dark blue polo shirt clings to a well defined torso. You’ve been going to the gym early in the mornings lately. I’ve noticed your softer parts get firmer in the passing weeks. My eyes appreciate the way the camel colored trousers hug your backside.

"Darling," a voice purrs behind me.

 

 

I close my eyes. “Irene. I didn’t know they’d let you in.”

She brushes my tone off with an airy laugh. “I knew you’d be thrilled to see me again. One of my television movies is up for an award.”

I nod curtly. “Congratulations?”

"It was a small part. We all have to start somewhere." She waves dismissively. Her eyes pour over my white short sleeved shirt and grey trousers. "You look delicious."

I roll my eyes. “I’m hot is what I am.” I wipe the moisture collecting on my forehead.

"I’ll say," she clucks.

"Irene," I start.

"Oh relax, Sherlock. Do you see that cool drink of water over there?" She points to a youngish blonde male dressed in a dark polo and tan linen pants. "He’s with me."

"Breaking in another bronco?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Couldn’t break you. Maybe he’ll have better luck." Your gaze has shifted to John.

"I’m sorry?"

She smiles. “I see you brought your pet too.”

My chest rises. “He’s my agent, Irene. I find your insinuation trite and ridiculous.”

She cocks her head. “Is it? Since mentioning him, you’ve gone completely flushed.”

"I hate repetition. I’m warm." I take a long sip from my drink.

"He cleans up well. He’s working out." She smiles. "For you, I bet."

"He has a girlfriend." I roll my eyes. "Do your research."

"I know. Claudia something. I think we took a drama class together years ago," Irene shrugs. "She left home for Hollywood. Don’t see that working out as planned."

You see Irene and your eyes narrow. The muscles in your arm twitch and stiffen as you clench your hand. The director has something important to say, but your attention is split.

"Ooh, he’s the jealous sort." Irene chuckles.

"He knows a PR wreck when he sees it." I mutter. I shake my head to indicate that he has nothing to fear.

"You really don’t see it, do you?" The playfulness leaves her voice. I look to her and she’s dropped her mask.

"What are you talking about?" I frown.

 

 

"He’s completely taken with you." Irene gives me the first genuine smile I’ve seen in years. For a moment, it reminds me of the girl I met long ago. "You who can read people best, but you can’t with him."

My brain freezes and allows me to think she might be right. I shake my head.

"Irene, he is dating a moderately attractive actress. He has no history of homosexual tendencies or experience. He’s very attentive because I’m a spoiled prat and he is exceedingly good at his job."

She looks over to you. “I’ve no doubt he’s good at his job. But the day after the wrap party, you didn’t have a meeting with him. You went on and on about the girlfriend flying in that day. How many agents turn up with coffee the morning after a party?” She cocked her head.

Did she know about the kiss? No, there was no one else in that alley.

"Your relationship is atypical of any talent and agent relationship. And he is absolutely smitten even if he can’t define it." She lays a hand on my arm. "And I know you are in over your head for him. I knew that night. It wasn’t me you wanted."

Despite being under a canopy, it feels like sun is beating down on my face. My mouth hangs open but I cannot form words. She speaks the truth.

"Darling, it’s fine. I was trying to recapture some old magic. I rather like seeing you smitten. I didn’t think you had it in you." She pats my cheek affectionately.

"Irene, we dated. Of course you’ve seen me interested." My voice is rough.

"Interested, maybe. But this is new for you, love. He matters. Just be patient, he might take some time coming around." Her eyes turn as you approach us. "John, don’t you look fetching."

You clear your throat in surprise. “Irene, lovely as always.”

I can barely meet your eye. Irene has filled my head with useless fantasies.

"Thank you John. Always a gentleman." She offers her hand. I seethe as your lips briefly graze her knuckles. She smirks at my glare and steps back. "I should get back to my date. If I leave him too long, I’ll have to taze a starlet off him."

She winks. “Be good, boys.”

Your jaw clenches. “What was that about?”

 

 

I blink a few times. “Irene?”

"Yes, if she brought a date, why was she all over you?" You ask.

I look at you, really look at you. Tight jaw, bulging neck muscles, wide eyes and twitching hands. Irene only touched me once - far from being overly affectionate. Yet you are clearly bothered. I can’t tell if it’s the sun or your blood pressure, but you are red. 

"Just to wish the show luck." I slip my hands into my pockets and attempt to look bored or annoyed. "Went on about what a wonderful job you are doing. I suspect she wants you for herself."

You bark out a laugh. “Like that will bloody happen.” You search my face. “Is that all? Do I need to guard your room tonight?” 

There is a playful edge to your voice that sends shivers down my spine. I cast a gaze at Irene and her date petting each other aggressively. “I think I’m safe.” I catch your never-ending blue eyes. “But I wouldn’t be opposed to your protection. Hollywood is a dangerous place, yes?”

I did not intend for it to come out as husky and needy as it does. My heart stops while waiting for your response. 

A smile hits your eyes as you lick lips. “Too bad I didn’t bring my gun.” 

I resist all urges to curl my hand around the back of your back of your neck to crush our lips together. I know this would be wrong for a myriad of reasons. 

You tug on my arm. “Come on. Let’s mingle with people who matter.”

I follow you and consider what Irene’s opened my eyes to matters very much.

 

 *  *  *  *  

JOHN

"What happened to your hair?" I frown at the stiff helmet on top of your head.

"The bleeding hair stylist! I was thinking over the script you gave me last week." You stalk across the room to glare in the mirror.

"So deeply you didn’t feel the litre of hair product being worked through your hair?" 

 

 

It’s bloody awful. Whoever she is, she managed to tame every last curl on your head so it looks like you wear a shiny black helmet from the future.

"You know how I am when I’m deep in thought!" You stare at me through your reflection.

"Yes, your mind palace," I roll my eyes.

“John, fix this!” You grip the edge of the desk.

I pull out the chair from the desk. “Okay. Sit. I’ll see what I can do.”

You look like a small child with your slumped shoulders and hands dangling between slender thighs. What was I doing? I blink and run into the palatial bathroom.

I run my hands under some warm water and grab a towel thicker than the rug in my flat.

"Put this across your shoulders." I was so thrown by the hair, I didn’t have a chance to appreciate your suit. Spencer Hart, of course. Like all your suits, it was tailored to every curve and slim line of your body. I can see your thigh muscles move below the expensive fabric. Mentally, I shake my head clear.

Leaning in the desk, I hastily thrust my fingers into your hair. Luckily it’s not as stiff as it looks.

"Wh-what are you doing?" You pull away.

"I’m trying to work out some of this goop. I can stop trying." I lean back, my hands covered in topical scented slime.

"No, keep going. Is it working?" You look at my feet.

I return my fingers to your hair. “I think it is. It won’t be perfect, but a little better.” Sometimes it pulls and you bite your lower lips in discomfort. “Sorry about that.”

You clear your throat. “It’s fine. Just do it, quickly.”

 

 

Slowly, the water on my hands and fingers frees your curls from their gummy prison. I can’t help noticing how soft your hair is even with gobs of product. I hate Irene for being able to pull it in passion. Again, I pause to clear my bizarre thoughts. As I work my fingers into your scalp, you lean into my touch with closed eyes. You look rapturous. I swallow the huge lump in my throat. A freed curl brushes your forehead.

"We’re making progress." I fight to steady my voice. That night in the alley floods my mind. I imagine clutching these curls and slipping my tongue past those full and slightly parted lips.

"Hmm," escapes from those ridiculous lips as my nails scrape your scalp.

"I figured you were a cat in a past life," I tease huskily.

You smile and it goes straight to my groin. Those cat-like eyes open. “Ah, but where do you scratch to make me purr.”

Your voice sounds like a purr from a tiger. I can feel it vibrate from my fingertips through my forearms.  I brace myself against my body’s desire to shudder.

As I hesitate, your eyes widen. “Sorry.”

"Sherlock, if you only flirted with reporters like that," I brush off the heaviness of the moment. "There, take a look."

I need to get away from you. All the black and white lines of my life are blurring grey. 

You look in the mirror. I’ve returned your hair to wavy with some loose curls at the crown. It’s still sticky, but at least it moves. 

"Much better. If this PR thing doesn’t work out, you have a future in personal hair styling." You touch a few curls carefully.

My laugh is forced and uneasy. “It’s the best I could do.”

You turn to give me the most dazzling smile. They are a rare occurrence, and seem to be just for me. I lick my dry lips.  ”I knew there was a reason I chose you, John Watson.”

I nod and look at my watch. “Come on. We’re late.”

  
In the back of a huge SUV, your leg bounces. Your eyes dart from window to window. Though your hands are clasped, your thumbs run over the back of your hands nervously.

"Calm down, Sherlock." I nudge your leg.

"I’m not nervous," you snap.

I raise an eyebrow. “Of course you aren’t. Have you never done an award show?”

"This is my first American one. I went to BAFTA last year. This is a bit," you gaze out the window as we wait in a long line of big black cars, "much."

"Don’t worry,” I try to steady you. “I’m here, and it’s not my first rodeo. We’ll get through this together, yeah?" My hand covers your knee.

You nod. “You are so much better at this than I am. You should be the talent charming the interviewers.”

"That would make you the PR agent. I don’t see that," I chuckle.

Your lips twitch into a grin. “No, I’d be rubbish. I can’t say that about most things.”

"It will be tedious. You hate repetition and there will loads of it. You’ll answer the same question a thousand times. But it’s part of the game. If you want the good roles, like the one you’ve just landed, you have to endure this."

You sigh with a forlorn glance outside. “I know.” You turn to me. “It’s good you are here.” 

It’s as much of a compliment I’ll get from you. The car door is opened by a man in a tux and ear piece. “Who is this?”

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes," I answer. 

The man shrugs. “I have Sherlock Holmes here.”

"Holmes!" you shout from inside the car.

The man ignores him. “Where do you want him?”

It’s fucking hot. I had hoped for a cloudy day. The sun is relentless. In New York, this will air at 8 in the evening. However, it’s the heat of the day on West Coast. You pull out a handkerchief to wipe your brow.   
We are ushered down the red carpet to a row of television and internet reporters standing behind a barricade. It’s early and the carpet is filled with producers and writers. The bigger names arrive fashionably late. 

I steer you towards some of my old clients to make introductions. They feign anger at you for whisking me to another continent. Slowly, the tension in your back eases and you might actually be enjoying yourself. You get recognized by Emmy darling Bryan Cranston, who gushes over your Hunter series. This draws more attention to you. Julie Bowen, Jim Parsons, Mark Ruffalo. Your smile is genuine and infectious.

"Look at our boy." I feel the sharp clap of Harry’s hand on my shoulder. I had forgotten he’d be here tonight.

"He’s doing very well for being an antisocial sod," I say affectionately.

"Indeed." His eyes feast on you hungrily. Not the same way Irene regards you, but Istill feel my cheeks burn.

His hand rests on your shoulder possessively as he insinuates himself into the conversation. You look for me, now lost in the throng. Your eyes entreat me to take his place. 

"Let me take you round." He maneuvers you towards the reporters.

 

 

I follow behind. I can barely look at you because it would only betray my anger. Of course Harry would swoop in and take the credit for my hard work. 

Harry turns to me. “Why don’t you go around with Adam.”

"Adam?" I frown.

"Adam Scott. I was going to meet him. He’s just turned up. I’ve got Sherlock." He grins.

Your mouth opens to protest. I give a slight shake of my head. You’re disappointed, but I can’t argue with Harry in front of a sea of reporters.

"I’m a handful. Sure you are equal to the task?" You quirk an eyebrow.

He claps you on the back. “Of course. We’ll see you later, John.”

You look defeated. Harry leads you away and down the line of reporters.  
With a heavy sigh, I walk to greet Adam. Normally this would be fine. I know Adam, and he’s a great guy. He’s easy in interviews and not such a mega star that he’ll run me ragged. He is up for a supporting award, so I have plenty to do.

I lose sight of you and Harry as the red carpet fills up thirty minutes before the show. Truthfully, I love award nights. It’s like a reunion where you get to see old friends. 

It takes my mind off the fact I’m not leading you through your first award show. I catch a glimpse of your curls in the crowd from time to time.  
Adam and I shuffle along. I barely pay attention to what he’s saying. My ear is trained for your voice. My head picks up when I hear a deep laugh. It’s not you. With fifteen minutes to go, you might be inside. Looks like I’ll be sitting with Adam. I’m grateful he didn’t bring a date.

"Oh it’s always a joy to work with Sherlock," a woman’s voice drawls.

I turn to see Irene directly behind me. She’s being interviewed by a smallish man with beady black eyes. 

"I’ve heard he’s a bit difficult," the man says.

I look at his badge. RTE from Ireland. This isn’t surprising, as British television has infiltrated the American market lately. I turn my back and hope to move Adam along. I’m satisfied that Irene is no closer to you than I am. I don’t care that she brought some young Adonis with her. She’d sink teeth, nails and whatever else she could into you. 

"John, you’d know." I feel a tug on my arm.

"Excuse me?" I turn to her.

"About Sherlock being difficult. You’re with him all the time." She smiles sweetly.

"He’s very dedicated to his work. You won’t find a harder working actor out there. It’s an honour to represent him." I keep my eyes on the reporter.

Irene frowns. “Where is he?” She looks at Adam chatting with Access Hollywood.

"My brother is showing him around." I want out of this conversation.

Irene huffs. “He must be miserable.”

Did you talk to Irene about Harry? 

"He didn’t stop to talk to me,” the reporter pouts. "He was the one I looked forward to meeting most."

"I’m sure it was busy." I try to move Adam along.

A hand reaches out from behind the barricade. “Perhaps you can get me an exclusive with him after.”

"I’ll see what I can do. Considering I am not with him, I can’t promise anything. Excuse me." I lay a hand on Adam’s shoulder. "We’ve seven minutes to air."

Adam nods in understanding and excuses himself. He’s presenting in the first half hour.

Happily, I don’t see Irene or the weasel-looking reporter again. I also cannot find you. Adam and I take our seats in the fourth row. I pull out my phone.

_Where are you?_

I chat with Amy Poehler and Chris Pratt. To be honest, I’m in a rather fun group. If nothing else, I’ll laugh my way through the show.

_Center aisle ten rows back -SH_

I crane my neck, but I don’t see you. I stand and there’s too many people.

_Can you see me?_

On the opposite side of the auditorium, I spot dark curls. A hand extends from the crowd with a quick wave. 

_I hate sitting with him. Can you switch? SH_

I take my seat.

_I don’t think he’ll allow it. I’ll see you after._

I can almost hear your huff from across a crowded room.

_Have fun :)_

_Smiley face? Really John? SH_

I settle back to watch the show. I’m anxious for our clients, including you. I look forward to see you present. During the commercials, I stand and stretch. My eyes search for you as I chat with people I know. Some writers, actors, producers all pause as they head to the loo or just move about. Harry is taking care of you, probably the way he always wanted to until you chose me. Why did you? I wonder for not the first time. Harry could’ve been pushed along by you. Was it his familial commitments? Did you think he wouldn’t be as attentive? 

I watch you put on the grin and shake hands. When our eyes meet, I feel warm. That little upturn of your lip in my direction makes my heart race a bit. 

This is good, Harry taking you around. It’s clear we spend too much time together. I have other clients and I must not forget that.I bend Adam’s ear about a cable show I think would push him out of the comedic stereotype he’s been stuck in. I’m interrupted by your name being said by the host.

"Sherlock Holmes and Rebecca Davenport."

You’ve been paired with a fellow Brit to announce Best Direction in a Movie or Miniseries. She’s about your age, with auburn curls. She blushes when she glances to you. I hold my breath and wait for a petulant glance or downturn of your lips. But you don’t go off the terrible script written for you and Rebecca. And you don’t show your true suffering, which only I can see. 

Your eyes find me immediately. Though you address the entire room, your gaze always rests on me. As if I ground you. Before you offer Rebecca your arm, you throw me a smile and usher her offstage. I reach down for the small bottle of water to wet my dry mouth.

Somewhere in the middle, I phase out. My mind always wanders at these things when no one connected to the firm is up for an award. A sudden buzz in my pocket starts me from my daze.

_My award is coming. Stay awake - SH_

I chuckle.

_It’s not YOURS. The show_

_I’m in the show and make it what it is ergo - it is mine - SH_

I shake my head with a tiny grin. It is always about you, isn’t it _?_  Another cluster of actors stand around a microphone stand to read off the nominees. We’re a long shot to win. In a year with movies about cancer and eclectic miniseries, no one thinks we have a chance. 

"The Curious Case of Mr. Hunter!" Voices ring out.

Holy shit. You won! You won! Okay, not you but your show and you are the show. I hate Harry for being the first to see your face. He can pull you in a hug but doesn’t understand what that means. I clap so hard my hands sting and my eyes burn. 

 

 

With your hand on the producer’s back, you climb the stairs with the rest of the cast. You find me in the crowd, beaming like a fool. That smile feels like mine. I don’t deserve it. I’ve just come onto the scene. Though Irene was not part of this winning season, she’s up there too—opportunistic slag that she is. She wraps herself around you, and you drop one arm around her shoulders. You avoid eye contact with her and move to give the director a hug. 

Harry will be waiting backstage for the press interviews. It should be me guiding you around and making the most of this moment.

_You did it. You won. :)_

Ten minutes later.

_We won, John. We. – SH_

_And no more smiley faces – SH_

 

 *  *  *  

  
Sherlock

It takes forever to lose Harry. He turns to talk to a much larger name and I slip away. I have no idea where I am and where to go. I am stopped every few hundred feet for a conversation and congratulations. All the ballrooms are dimly lit, making it almost impossible to see anyone. I take a deep breath to collect my thoughts.

I wish you let me protest his stealing me away on the red carpet. I could see the anger in your eyes as he wrapped his arm across my back and led me away. I hate that you felt powerless. I know the red carpet is not the place for a power play, but it sickens me the way he castrates your ability. The way he stamps the fire out in your eyes. I watch you meet that other actor with slumped shoulders and I bite the inside of my cheek. If I berate Harry here in front of the world’s media, I risk more than just my partnership with you. I can’t help thinking that the light press at the small of my back or guiding hand at my elbow should be yours. I long to turn to you after another tedious interview for your reassuring smile and warm chuckle. To be fair, Harry is smooth and capable among reporters. Like you, he knows everyone. He’s well respected among the Hollywood circles. Halfway down the carpet, I realize that you will not be sitting with me for the show. Instead, you will be with that other actor who you greeted warmly with a hug. A wave of possessive jealousy bubbles up within in as I watch you stop to laugh and chat with another group. You are so blissfully at ease in this setting. Perhaps my social ineptitude strangles you. With someone like the thin actor with the large head, you can relax and not worry about the verbal missteps to which I am prone.

Your first text draws me out of my black mood. I see you search for me. The smile you give me causes my heart to swell. Was Irene correct? Do you care beyond a working relationship? Is this what real friendship looks like?

The show drags on interminably. I actually enjoy presenting an award because I can see you. Throughout the evening, no matter how I try, my eyes always fall back on you. My only solace is that we spend the better part of two hours texting like school girls. Harry gives me a sideways glance as I chuckle under my breath.

When my show is announced for an Emmy, I hate that it is Harry beside me. He looks like he wants to hug me, and I block with a hand shake that leads into an awkward one-armed embrace. When I reach the stage, I find you in the fourth row. Your hands and face are red. To say you are beaming would be an understatement. Yet, it fills me with so much pride that my chest burns. I long for it to be you congratulating me. We would hug properly - bodies pressed together. It would be a victory for us both.   
Irene’s words from before echo in my head as she joins us on the stage. She nods to you as she wraps an arm around me. I try not to think too much about her knowing smile as you beam with happiness and pride. I just long to see you, to touch you. Even in the guise of friendship. As  I exit the stage with my cast and creative team, Irene coos, “He’s absolutely soppy for you. He’s so proud.”

A shiver slides down my spine. My cheeks burn with possibility. I cannot separate my elation over the award from the thoughts Irene plants in my mind.

The next thirty minutes are a blur. We are ushered into different rooms with a sea of reporters. The flashbulbs hurt my eyes, and my head pounds with the same questions being asked of me. Finally, I stumble back to my seat with ten minutes until the final award is given.

When Harry and I stand to leave, I look for you in the crowd. Damn your height. You are swallowed whole by the crowd. I think I see your golden hair in a flash, but Harry is ushering me to the door to the first of many after parties.

I glare at my dead mobile in my palm. Somewhere between texting Greg and Molly’s phone call, my battery has failed me. I can’t call or text you. I try to procure Harry’s, but he is too busy introducing me to several meaningful and meaningless people. I stretch my neck to find you in the crowd. There are at least a dozen after parties. I have no idea which one you have gone to. Are you still with that other actor? Are you obligated to stay with him the entire night? I loathe the emotional thoughts that cause my stomach to burn. I think back to a time not so long ago when it was the work that mattered. When I didn’t care who followed me around to make introductions as I shook hands and barely grinned. Now I just want you beside me for the work and for me.

I open my eyes, not feeling calmer than when I closed them. Harry is still out of sight but I can’t see you either. You told me to charge my phone as I dressed. I can almost hear the sing-song ‘told you so’ slip from those lips of yours. I rub the back of my neck. My options are slim. It’s ten o’clock. I consider going back to the room to wait for you. How long would be out? Are you looking for me as well?

I recognise an actor I met earlier. He taps away on his phone. 

"Excuse me. My battery has died. I need to contact my agent. We’ve lost each other." I ask.

He nods. “Sure.”

 

 

As he hands me his phone, I hear a distinct laugh in the distance. My eyes follow the sound. You laugh with Woody Harrelson. He’s talking and you nod along. The air rushes from my lungs. While I am in a full on panic attack, there you are guffawing like an idiot. Or maybe I am the idiot to think you gave a damn? I clutch the phone in my hand tightly. Fine. I have done my duty. I’ve chatted up reporters and dazzled future colleagues. I have done your job perfectly on my own. 

"Are you okay?" the cell phone man asks.

"Yes, I don’t need this." I hand it back without looking at him. I turn to leave. 

"Sherlock!" Your voice calls.

I ignore you. I won’t give you the satisfaction of pretending to find me.

"Sherlock!" Your voice draws closer and is tinged with desperation. 

Suddenly, you move into my line of sight. I stop and glare.

"Christ! I’ve been looking for you," you pant.

"Really?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Of course. Where’s Harry?" you ask.

"I lost him, I believe." I glance around.

"Brilliant." Your smile sends a hot spike of desire through me.

"He’s an idiot so it wasn’t that difficult." I fight a grin.

“I’ve been calling and texting you and Harry. I was trying to find where you’d gone.” Your voice cracks.

“Where is the other man?” I try not to pout but I know I must look like a petulant child to you.

“Other man? Adam? Oh, I left him at the first party. I was concerned when I couldn’t reach you.”

I hold up my black phone.

You smile but shake your head. “Dead battery? If you are trying to avoid me, there are other ways.”

“John, I would never. I was just about to call you…” I look for the phone actor. “You called Harry?”

“And texted. He never got back to me.” You scowl.

I purse my lips. My anger is redirected from you to him. He must have seen that you were trying to reach me and deliberately kept that information from me. “He never mentioned that.”

“No matter now.” You rub the back of your neck. “You won! I’m so happy for you!” You pull me into a hug and wrap your strong arms around me. 

Reluctantly, I surrender to the sensation and slide my arms around you. I smell the sweat and liquor seep from your pores. It’s a heady perfume and I can’t help to lick my lips next to your skin. I have to move away because I don’t trust myself - even in a room filled with powerful people.

We part with a manly slap on the arm. Something is hidden just beyond your gaze.

"It’s the beginning of a great year for you," you say.

"For us, John. We’re in this together," I state.

You nod and the lines around your eyes soften. “Together.”

 

 

The air surrounding us feels heavy and electric. I will everyone away so I can take one step closer before you close off to me.

"Let me buy you a drink," your hand grasps the back of my neck to guide me to the bar.

The window to inside slides shut. Fine. Tonight we will celebrate with the world. 

Harry finds us a few parties later. We’ve each had a few cocktails and lean towards one another on a leather couch away from the main dance floor and activities.

"I see you found each other." He plops beside you. "Where’s Adam?"

"I left him at the Parks and Recreation party. He didn’t seem keen on hopping around. I found this one wandering around the Dreamworks party on his own. He was ready to call it night." You gesture to me.

"I have no idea how we got separated." Harry frowns. "I’m sorry."

I shrug. “No matter. I was found.”

It takes everything to not press my leg against yours.

"We’ll be calling it a night soon. I’ve an early call with Sally tomorrow." You try to hide a yawn.

"You get into Toronto on Friday?" Harry asks.

"I have a meeting in New York Tuesday afternoon. The beach house is still open, yeah?" you ask.

"Claire might be there relaxing but you won’t bother her."

"Do you want to relax there for a few days? Toronto will be crazy. And you start rehearsals when we get back." You turn to me. "We can stay in the city and catch a few shows too."

I have the choice of a rolling beach house to ourselves or the crowds of New York City? While I hate relaxing, I loathe crowds more.

"The beach house is the better of those two choices," I say with exaggerated boredom.

"I’ll see you in Toronto then. I still need to get to Universals party." Harry is off.

"If you don’t want to go the beach, it’s fine, Sherlock," you say.

"No, I think it’s just what I need." I settle back into the sofa. I believe a few days alone might be exactly what we both need.

 

 

 

 


	21. Hanging by a Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John enjoy a few days rest before the Toronto Film Festival. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OoV7gds4pP0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. I am working on 3 other stories and try to rotate them out. So again, thank you for your attention, your kudos, views and comments. Have a great Thanksgiving to those here in the States. 
> 
> Special shout out to Michelle, my editor and agent and Irene, my biggest fan. :)

John

 

I sleep on the plane to New York. I’m grateful that you let me. While it wasn’t a wild and crazy awards night, it was still late. At some point during the flight, I swear I feel a weight on my shoulder and soft hair brush my cheek. The agent in me knows I should shift away. Lord knows what this looks like. But it’s warm and comfortable; I have resist the urge to nuzzle in deeper.  
  
Tuesday is nothing but meetings. Some include you, others benefit other clients. You pout when I tell you that I’ll be working into the night and you’re on your own. With the entire city at your disposal, you decide to have a strop in your hotel room and send me an infinite number of texts to maintain your place at the forefront of my attention.  
   
Wednesday morning brings hazy skies and unseasonably warm weather. I’m glad we chose the beach house. The city is stuffy, smelly and seems to put you on edge. I check with Claire to see if she needs us to bring anything with us. She’s in the city and the house is ours. Immediately, I feel warm and flushed despite the hotel’s air conditioning. A sprawling house alone with you. Why would that be odd? I force myself to focus on all the work we can get done. You have lines to learn. I have schedules to plan. We can relax on the deck. Maybe go for a swim if it gets too hot. I shudder involuntarily thinking back to our last visit to the beach. The feel of your wet skin on mine, and that was before our kiss. 

  
"Are you feeling well?" you ask, startling me.

 

 

  
  
"Yeah." My voice comes out too high. I mask it with a short cough. "Why?"  
  
"You look ghostly white."  
  
I rub my forehead. “Just tired and overheated.”  
  
You continue to watch me with a quizzical expression. You can certainly read people better than anyone I’ve ever seen, but I hope I’m less transparent than most. I’d hate for you to discover something in me before I do.  
  
The house has been vacant a few weeks, and is musty and stuffy as we walk through the door. We both wince at the wall of heat that hits us.  
  
"Right. Let’s get these windows open," I suggest.

  
We make our rounds through the house to get some fresh air moving through. I put away the shopping, because as I suspected, the cupboards are bare. You collapse on a stool to watch me. You’ve rolled up your shirt sleeves and wipe the thin sheen from your brow.  
  
"I think we need to get out of the house. Walk on the beach?" I try not to stare at the two buttons you’ve undone, exposing your chest.  
  
"Excellent idea," you nod.

 

 

  
  
Being that our trip was unexpected, you have to borrow some beachwear from me. I show to my room and let you choose whatever will work as I grab some trunks and a vest for myself.  
  
You come out a few minutes later wearing my clothes. My sweatpants are a little big in the waist. When you move your arms, my threadbare vest rides up and I can see the flat plain of your abdomen and hip bones. I blink a few times and turn my eyes to the sea. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why is the sight of that trail of hair disappearing below the low slung waist driving me to distraction?

"Sorry about the clothes," I mutter. "I know this isn’t up to your standard."   
  
You shrug. “It’s fine. It’s hot and we’re at the beach.”  
  
The breeze ruffles your hair as you stare at the broad expanse of sand and water ahead. My head feels heavy with the wild thoughts that course through it.  
  
But then we start talking about the Work, and at once, everything feels easy between us again. We discuss the schedule for the Toronto Film Festival, where you have two movies showing. One is a bigger budget spy film opening the second night. It’s a large ensemble cast. The second film has a smaller budget and is about two brothers who return home to bury their mother. You play the brother with a drug addiction, and your performance is spell binding. There have been a few murmurs about awards for you and the film. It’s my job to capitalise on that.  
  
For someone who barely tolerates people, you seem excited about the festival. You are animated and engaged as I go over the schedule of parties, interviews and scheduled appearances.  
  
I don’t tell you that Claudia will be there with her own movie. Her name usually seems to douse your amiable mood. At some point, I will have to tell you. I haven’t really decided how I feel about her attending. Normally, I’d be thrilled we would get to spend some time together. However, I’m so busy with your films and agenda, I won’t have much time for her. It should bother me that I’m not upset. With a shake of my head, I push it to the back of my mind.  
  
It’s a glorious day; warm and humid but with a light breeze. I shuffle through the dancing surf. The water is at its warmest this time of year. You roll up my already-short sweats over your toned calves to wade in the water beside me. We take turns kicking water at each other while dissolving into high pitch giggles. I’ve never had a relationship like this where I felt so content and comfortable. Despite the rough exterior you show everyone else, with me you are warm and silly at times.   
  
You shake the water off with an impossibly goofy yet endearing grin. “I’m soaked through,” you say through the laughter.  
  
"Don’t worry. I have loads more ill-fitting clothes for you at the house," I tease.  
  
"That’s because you are a Hobbit." Another kick of water hits me in the face.

 

 

  
  
"And you are an ethereal Elf!" I kick back.  
  
The only thing that matters right now is this—two friends playing in the surf on a late summer day. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this joyful.  
  
Again, I look to the ocean when my thoughts become overwhelming and confusing. I shouldn’t feel this way about a male friend. Definitely not one that I work for.  
  
I don’t know how long we walk. The sun seems lower in the sky—lower than early afternoon. The breeze has chilled and raises gooseflesh over my damp skin.  
  
"What time is it?" I squint at your wrist.  
  
”Five o’clock.”   
  
"Christ. How long have we walked?" I can’t see the house anymore.  
  
"Judging by sun position, time…I’d say at least two miles." You nod authoritatively.  
  
"Jesus. That went by fast." My stomach rumbles. "Let’s head back. Some dinner and wine?"  
  
A boyish grin lights up your face. “Sounds perfect.”  
  
We hold a gaze for a moment before I gesture in the direction of the house. We walk in comfortable silence, plucking shells from the sand and making comparisons. We see how far we can toss them in the water. With your spindly arms, yours sail well beyond mine.   
  
"You can have a shower while I cook," I suggest.  
  
"You’re going to cook?"   
  
"I do cook, you know. On the days I’m left to my own devices, how do you think I eat? I don’t survive on takeaway," I chuckle.  
  
"How very domestic." Do I sense annoyance in your tone?  
  
"If you consider chicken curry or beans and toast domestic," I shrug.  
  
"Is that what’s on the menu tonight?" Your nose wrinkles adorably.   
  
"I was thinking chicken and potatoes, if that meets your approval. If not, we can find a restaurant, I’m sure."  
  
"That sounds wonderful, John."   
  
I catch your glance and it goes straight to my chest. Sometimes the way you say my name sounds like a whisper in the dark; low, intimate and a declaration of something more.  
  
I keep my head down and trudge on. A night with wine and the two of us makes me feel nervous. But I’m being ridiculous. You have no interest in anything but your work. Maybe getting a leg over once in awhile. Like with Irene, the night we kissed. My hands clench in a strange bout of jealousy. I look to the sea.  
  
The walk back seems to take forever. Lights come on in other houses as the sun dips lower in the sky.   
  
"John," your voice brings me out of my head. "Is that your house?"  
  
I lift my eyes to a house covered in people and music blaring. Yes, that’s my house, but who are those people? For a moment, I think we have squatters that have crashed.   
  
My legs pump harder as I storm across the beach. I’m ready to rage and bust heads. And then I stop dead. On the porch, I see Andrew at the grill. Lydia holds court with a group of friends. I’m relieved, then annoyed. There goes our quiet weekend. Of course Andrew would fuck up my plans by turning up with the underside of New York City.  
  
"What’s wrong?" You catch up to me.  
  
"Bloody Andrew and his bloody club kids. I’m sorry. We were supposed to be able to relax." I sigh heavily.  
  
"Johnny!" Andrew calls cheerfully.  
  
I feel a large hand on my shoulder. “It’s fine. Unexpected but fine.”  
  
I turn to look at you. “Do you want to head back to the city?”  
  
"It’s getting late and we’ve not eaten. This place is big enough for all of us, wouldn’t you agree?"  
  
I bite my lip to resist the urge to lean forward until your lips stop me from falling over.   
  
"We can decide in the morning. It’s one night." I smile weakly.  
  
"Johnny, you want a burger?" Andrew calls.  
  
"Burger?" I ask you.  
  
You shrug. “Why not?”   
  
We are both far from delighted to find that Cheyenne has come too. She has forgotten your treatment of her last time. Perhaps the current rumour of you dating Irene has rekindled her interest in you. She plops down beside you and bats her eyelashes shamelessly. You twitch and flinch next to her. She shoves a drink in your hand that you don’t touch. With this crowd, it’s probably best.   
   
I watch you carefully as I do the washing up. Of course I was stuck with cleaning. Cheyenne and another model have you trapped on the sofa. They talk over you, but Cheyenne wraps a possessive arm around you. Clearly she’s marking her territory. I keep watching them. I know they most likely have drugs with them and will offer you some tonight. What I don’t know is if you will sneak some when I turn away.   
  
The party spreads to the beach where a bonfire burns. Cheyenne tugs at your arm for you to join her. She fancies that you’ll share a few hits of something and a drink. With a fuzzy mind, you’ll take her to your room, my room, to pull her legs on your shoulders while you fuck her into my mattress. I swallow hard at the image my mind creates of your arse and back covered in sweat as you thrust into her.  
  
"Do you need help?" Your voice is low beside my ear.  
  
I press my hips against the sink as my cock twitches against my will. “Sorry?”

 

 

  
  
"With the dishes." You gesture to the sink half filled with plates.  
  
"If you want to dry." I nod to a towel with wet dishes on it. "Where’s Cheyenne off to?"  
  
"To shove a spoon up her nose in your toilet." You grab a dry flannel.  
  
I grimace. “How do you feel about that?”  
  
"I’m not her keeper." You shrug casually.  
  
My mind buzzes as I wash the same plate over and over.  
  
"John." You set down the plate and turn to me. "I know you know of my past transgressions. While it’s been years since I have partaken and I have no desire to, once an addict always an addict."  
  
"You consider yourself a proper addict then?"   
  
"Enough to know to stay away," you say pointedly.  
  
"If there are skeletons, I need to know them Sherlock." I state.  
  
"Are you guys coming down to the beach?" Andrew interrupts.  
  
"Let us finish up here," I answer. You look grateful for the interruption.

*  *  *  *  

You are the first to turn in, tiring quickly of the unwanted attention from Cheyenne and a few others. They try to get you to drink. They attempt to have you dance. It doesn’t take long for you to announce you’re off to read and go to bed.  
  
I stay by the fire to keep tabs on everyone. Cheyenne disappears and I wait nervously for her to return. You didn’t seem interested but when someone is tossing themselves at you so blatantly, would you just give in to feed a base need?   
  
Ten minutes later she comes back in a full strop. Meanwhile the other women start to pelt me with questions about you. Do you have a girlfriend? Are you gay? Are the rumors of you and Irene true?  
I state that working is your top priority and that you have no time for anything else.   
  
Andrew and Lydia are the first to go to bed, taking Cheyenne with them. Slowly the others pair off and disappear. It does not go unnoticed that no one attempts to make off with me. I know it’s not because I’m with Claudia. This is a morally ambiguous group where everyone fucks each other. I’m just not beautiful or famous enough for a shag.  
  
I’m so into my own head that I don’t notice I’m the last one left on the beach in front of a dying fire. Perfect. I come up here for some relaxation and I’m cleaning up after everyone. Bitterly, I douse the fire and gather up the trash carelessly strewn about the beach.   
   
I’m placing glasses in the sink when I hear a muffled moan coming from the office. Shit. I knew all the bedrooms would most likely be claimed, but I had counted on the day bed in the office being mine. Resigned, I look to the leather sofa with a heavy heart.   
   
At least my case is still in the hall. I rummage in the dark for a pair of pants and pajama bottoms. I don’t give a fuck about leaving sandy clothes on the bathroom floor. They will have to deal with it.  
  
I finally ease myself onto the sofa, pulling the quilt over me and staring at the ceiling. The sofa is worn from Andrew and Claire sitting in the same spots night after night. The middle cushion dips, causing a twinge of pain in my lower back. I shift to my side to relieve the pressure. It does, but only for a few minutes, when the pain moves to my shoulder and hip. I sigh deeply and decide I’ll tell you that we’ll leave tomorrow. I can’t do another night here.  
  
It takes approximately ten more minutes for the couple in the office to finish. I stare at the shadows on the wall and contemplate putting the television on. I don’t foresee myself sleeping soundly. Hopefully, I can doze a bit.  
  
I hear the door to my bedroom open. There is a shuffle of feet on the floor. Oh God, what if it’s another one of the girls here? I strain to hear a giggle, a whisper, anything. My heart races with an emotion I’m not ready to define. It lies between jealousy and anger.  
  
You cough quietly. It’s just you, then. I let out the breath I was holding. The refrigerator door opens. Things are moved around on the shelves before I hear the plastic cap crack open. The house is so quiet, I can hear you swallow. I bite my lip hard and squeeze my eyes shut.

 

 

  
  
You shuffle back to the bedroom. I strain for any other noises coming from my room. The creak of the bed. A sigh or whisper. I don’t care that it’s weird or wrong to listen for these clues. I’m so consumed in my own head, I don’t hear the steps stop their retreat down the hall.  
  
"John?" Your sleepy voice asks.  
  
I roll to my back. “What is it?”  
  
You peer down at me with impossible bed head. It actually causes me pain.  
  
"What are you doing here?" You loom above me.  
  
"All the beds are taken." I rub my eyes. "This is what’s left."  
  
Even in the dark I can make out a frown. “It’s not good for your back.”  
  
"The floor is worse," I say.  
  
You sigh and look around the room. “Come on. You are sleeping in your bed.” You grab the quilt.  
  
"I can’t let you sleep on the sofa," I protest.   
  
"I’m certainly not planning to," you huff. "Come now. We’re both adults and its a king sized bed. There’s plenty of room."   
  
I’m not sure which condition is worse for actual sleep. “I’m fine really,” I protest.   
  
You let out an exasperated sigh. “I will not stand here all night and argue with you.” You snatch the the quilt from my hands. “Let’s go.”  
  
Wincing as I peel myself from the sofa, I follow you into the bedroom. My heart rattles in my ribs. I’ve shared beds with men before. Reservations get fucked up all the time. There’s never been tension or butterflies; I just roll over and go to sleep.   
  
I move to the neat side of the bed and turn down the covers. Is this really happening?   
  
The likelihood that I’ll fall asleep is slim. I suppose I’ll be more comfortable here as I stare at the ceiling or wall for the remainder of the night. Beside me, I can hear you breathe deeply. I try to lie still, but the urge to fidget is strong.   
  
Distant moans filter through the closed door.   
  
You sigh. “Again? I figured the duration of the last time would have exhausted him.”  
  
I chuckle. “So you heard?”  
  
"I’m certain the whole house heard."  
  
"Maybe not Cheyenne, Andrew and Lydia. They are in Harry’s room"  
  
You turn your head to look at me. “I could have told you that was going to happen the moment I rejected her.”

  
"Did she come in here?" My jaw tightens.  
  
"She attempted to seduce me. I think my refusal was thorough enough to dissuade her from another attempt."   
  
I laugh. “I wish I could’ve seen that. She’s not used to hearing the word ‘no’.”  
  
You roll to your side. “Have you fornicated with her?”

 

 

  
  
"God, no. She’s a walking STD. Besides, even high she’s selective enough to not choose someone like me."  
  
"What do you mean by ‘someone like you’?" you ask.  
  
I shrug. “A nobody. Not sexy or handsome enough.”  
  
"I wish you would think better of yourself. I could hit Harry for the damage he has inflicted on you," you growl.  
  
My heart twists. “I’m not wrong. I’m not an actor or someone famous.”  
  
"Don’t ever let anyone make you believe that." You prop up on one elbow. There is a fire in your eyes that leaves me speechless. I can only nod. You stare at me for a few seconds more before dropping to the bed. I listen to the waves, the sounds of sex, and your breathing.  
  
"I want you to tell me about the drugs," I say quietly.

 

 

  
  
You tuck your hands behind your head. “What is there to know?”  
  
I roll to my side. “Everything. It’s amazing what can be discovered on the internet. If someone from your past thinks they can make money selling a story, they will. If something unsavory surfaces, I’ll need to manage it. In order to so that, I need full disclosure. No secrets.”   
  
You sigh. “I never went to a traditional rehabilitation center. My family, my brother, felt it best I went to a retreat to learn meditation.”  
  
"Meditation?"  
  
"As you’ve become aware, I cannot stand an idle mind. Mine never stops moving. If I sit still, I get bored and then reckless. I enjoy cocaine because it makes thing sharper and helps me focus." You blink a few times. "It made being with people tolerable."  
  
"Being with people?" I ask.  
  
"Are you going to repeat all my words?" you snip.  
  
"I’m sorry. Go on."   
  
You pull one hand out from behind your head and touch my arm. “I should not have snapped. It’s…not pleasant to discuss. Being in theater and in films requires that you socialise. Cocaine made that easier. Soon I required it for all human interaction—especially intimate contact.”  
  
I envision you naked, snorting a line before turning to a waiting body on the bed. It should not arouse me. I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. It does stop my hard-on.  
  
"How long ago was this?" I ask.  
  
You rub your eye with the heel of your hand. “About six years ago. It was before my first real movie. Once I began obtaining steady work, the desire for the high lessened.”  
  
"Do you ever get tempted?"  
  
You glance over. “Sometimes. There are days when the noise becomes unbearable. It hasn’t happened in months, though. My brain and anxiety have calmed considerably.”  
  
"Why is that? Is it the work?"  
  
You nod. “A bit, yes.” Your fingers worry at the sheet pulled to your stomach. “And you, John.”  
  
Everything stops—the clocks, the rolling ocean, the sex in the next room.

 

 

  
  
"Me?" I whisper.  
  
"I can’t fail you. We’re working hard, you and I. That keeps me right. The commitment to the partnership."  
   
My eyes watch your fingers tap restlessly against your bare chest. Why couldn’t you have worn a vest to bed? I clench my fist under the sheets to stop myself from entwining my fingers with yours. God, can you hear my heart, because it’s all I can hear.  
  
You turn to me. “I don’t want to let you down. You have enough of that.”  
  
I try to subtly clear my throat. “You never disappoint me.”  
  
You raise an eyebrow. “Irene?”  
  
When I chuckle, the tension lifts. “Okay, most of the time.”  
  
You join me in laughing. “Ninety-nine percent of the time.”  
  
"Mm, ninety-three," I counter.  
  
You pout. “Ninety-six percent?”  
  
I think for a second. “That’s fair.”   
   
You nudge me playfully.  
  
"When you were with Irene before, were you using?"   
  
"We both did. It made the sex more enjoyable. She was always more of a recreational user." You run your fingers through your curls. "Once I was clean, I lost my interest in sexual contact. Irene lost interest in me."  
  
"Did you love her?" Jealousy unfolds in my stomach.   
  
You frown. “No. It was companionship.”  
  
My stomach unclenches. I can’t imagine you being soppy over anyone, really. Maybe a young Sherlock during university. Perhaps you were hurt by someone and that raised your defenses.  
  
I prop up on one elbow. Your eyes drift up to me.  
  
"Have you ever been in love?" I ask.  
  
I can’t tell if it you cough or snort. “Love, a chemical defect of the brain.”  
  
"I’ll take that as a no." Of course you’d be above all this emotion.I look at your face closer. You fiddle with the sheet, rubbing it between your fingers. "Seriously? You’ve never felt an overwhelming affection for anyone?"  
  
Your eyes flutter—those impossible lashes dancing across chiseled cheekbones. What do you look like in love? Does it radiate through those ethereal eyes? What must it be like to be on the receiving end of that?  
  
"I do not believe I have. The world is short of exceptional people." Your bottom lip disappears beneath your teeth.   
  
Yes. Of course the person worthy of your affection would need to be someone exceptional. It wouldn’t be a short man who can barely hold his own with his brothers. It would be someone strong, unlike me.  
  
"I hope that you find that person," I say quietly. I hope I say it with more conviction than I feel.  
  
Your leg bumps mine. “I take that you found that person. Your soulmate.” Your voice is sharp _._  
  
My throat tightens. “Maybe.”  
  
"I suppose you have plans with Claudia."  
  
"I guess it would be the natural progression." I haven’t really given much thought to a future with Claudia lately. I’ve been busy with you, and being on a different continent—how would that work? 

"That sounds so romantic. However ever do you woo?" you cluck.  
  
"There’s no need to rush things. I like my life as it is." I shrug.   
  
"Yes, it is a good time for life." You turn to look at me.  
  
"What about you? Do you see any of that down the road? Once you find someone exceptional, that is." I have to admit the thought of you with someone else cuts deep. I’m quite used to being your confidante. Sure, you ring me at odd times of the day with inane comments or questions. If you were to have someone else for that, what happens to me?   
  
You sigh and readjust yourself in the bed. “You know me. Always about the work. It comes first.”  
  
"Nothing can trump that?"  
  
"I never considered anything else coming first." Your eyes search my face."I could be wrong."

 

 

  
  
It’s an intense moment that I ruin with a chuckle. “Can I get that on film?”  
  
You offer me a sly grin. “Talk to my agent.”  
  
The conversation never wanders into deep territory again. I suggest we leave in the morning. You want to wait. It seems silly to spend one night in the city. Staying another night means possibly sharing this bed. Another six hours of trying to quiet the strange buzz in my brain.  
  
Eventually our conversation dissolves into a series of yawns and long stretches of silence. I say goodnight and get no response. I glance over to see the most perfect profile cut into the darkness. Your lips are parted as soft snore escapes. Dark curls obscure your eyes. I want to reach over and brush them from your forehead. Instead, I close my eyes and roll over. My ears strain for the sound of waves crashing on the beach. Anything to slow my racing heart.


	22. Painted in flames, a peeling thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from What If This Storm Ends by Snow Patrol
> 
> Sherlock convinces John to stay another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience. I had to finish my Christmaslock before I could continue with this. This was originally a longer chapter, but I didn't want to have you wait more. I hope it what you've been waiting for. This is like a New England winter, a long duration event, so I hope you are all with me as it unfolds.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who reads, everyone who gives me kudos and special love to anyone who takes the time to offer comments.
> 
> Thank you to my editor, Michelle and her flailing and Irene for asking about this all the time which makes me feel loved.

Sherlock

 

Something warm and solid is pressed against my arse. It takes a few moments to remember that I’m not alone. Gingerly, I glance over my shoulder to find you on your side, facing away from me. It’s your firm arse against mine. The knowledge fills my cock with desire and blood. I have to get out of this bed before you wake to my raging erection. The intimacy of last night overwhelms me. It took everything to not reach for you. Was I wrong in sensing temptation in you?

  
Carefully, I slip from the bed into the bathroom. I need to discreetly take care of my situation before you wake. In the shower, I replay the prior night in my head with a very different conclusion. I muffle my moan against my fist. At some point, I need to get over this silly infatuation. You might be a little confused on your sexuality, but you cling to that girlfriend. I wonder if you’ll ever come to terms with that side of yourself.  
  
You’re sitting up and rubbing your eyes when I emerge from the bathroom.   
  
"Good morning," I say.  
  
"Morning," you yawn.  
  
"How did you sleep?" I walk over to my suitcase.  
  
"Good. And you?"   
  
I drop my towel. It might embarrass you, but it might inspire you.   
  
"Very well." I steal a quick glance over my shoulder. You quickly look away. I suppress a smile and take my time rummaging through my clothes.  
  
"Have you decided if we are staying?"  
  
You scratch your head. “What are your thoughts?”  
  
I peek through the blinds to a beautiful day. I turn around to watch your eyes graze my body before snapping back to my face.   
  
"I think we should stay. A day swimming and relaxing before we head into a busy weekend sounds better than driving to the city."   
  
You nod and rub your eyes. “Even with them here?”  
  
I shrug and open one of your dresser drawers for swim trunks. “I think we can avoid them.”  
  
I know you watch me bend over to slip into a pair blue trunks. “I’ll make coffee?”  
  
You nod. “That’d be great. I’ll go shower.”  
  
You’re waiting for me to leave to toss the covers off. Either you’ve awakened with an erection or perhaps my actions have helped. Regardless, you want to hide it. I leave in peace. I only hope you think of me as you masturbate.  
  
The kitchen is quiet. As I set up the coffee maker, Lydia staggers in. She waves and collapses into a chair. It’s just the two of us until you walk in, skin still pink from a hot shower.   
  
"There’s a great beach with dunes and a little clam shack down the road," you suggest.   
  
"Sounds perfect," I smile behind the coffee mug.   
  
You’re anxious to get away from your brother and his vapid friends. After last night’s shenanigans, I want to get out of the house as well. A few years ago, I would have partook in the drinking and drugs. I would have tumbled into bed with one or two of guests for a night of drug-fueled debauchery. Today, I would rather spend an afternoon with you, doing nothing.  
  
We decide to walk the two miles down the road, taking only some towels and sunscreen. The beach, though public, is mostly ours. You smile as some young children run in the surf. A pang of disappointment stabs at me. This is the life you want - wife and children on the beach. You don’t want to spend the rest of your days running after a talented but temperamental actor. No matter what thoughts might be stirring in your head, tradition is what you crave.  
  
We don’t talk about schedules, scripts or the Work at all. The topics are airy and non-confrontational. We take turns swimming and napping. It’s the most relaxed I’ve been in a long time.   
  
"You’re brother doesn’t mind Andrew’s lifestyle?" I ask after a stretch of silence.  
  
You bury your feet in the sand. “As long as he doesn’t do it around Harry and doesn’t get in trouble, he can do what he likes. The key is to remain in the background. You know, not make waves or get into the press.”  
  
"And dating actresses and models are not press worthy?" I ask.  
  
You grin. “As long as they’re not our clients or bringing bad press, it’s fine.”  
  
I turn to look at you. “Your clients?”  
  
"Yeah. I’m sure you read the ‘fraternization clause’ in your contract." You grin.  
  
I search in my mind for a copy of the contract I signed months ago. I didn’t remember such a thing. There was the fee, the exclusivity addendum and….Greg must have missed it. Or thought it was not an issue.  
  
"It’s silly for it to be in all contracts. It’s only needed in the opposite sex arrangements," you chuckle.  
  
I feel sick. “Why do your contracts have that?” I attempt to sound casual.

You point to yourself. “Me. I was Claudia’s agent. Then we started fraternising. Harry was pissed off when he found out. We had to sell her contract to another firm. In case things went south, you know. Ever since then, it’s been part of the agreement.”  
  
I didn’t need another reason to dislike Claudia, but now I have one. Not only did I discover this unfortunate twist, but you’ve made certain to reaffirm your heterosexuality. I have been punched twice.  
  
"I’m hungry." You perk up. "Are you hungry?"  
  
Not really. In fact, I feel like going home to crawl under my duvet until I’m absolutely needed.   
  
"Sure." I force a smile.   
  
You pop up and hold out a hand to me. I brush the sand off and take your offer. I know I’ll get over this. This is how infatuation works. You get bored of wanting or you get what you want and get bored. Eventually, it fades to a memory that I can store or delete.   
  
The clam shack reminds me of some fish and chips tucked away in a side ally of London. Perhaps a bit brighter. We sit outside on a faded picnic bench, eating a few clams and some deep fried fritters. Mostly, we drink cold beer and watch the fishermen cruise in to the marina. By the time we walk home, we both have a bit of a glow, and I’ve forgotten all about the contract.  
  
Of course another party is in full swing. There is another volleyball game, and it looks like more people than the previous night. We toss a frisbee with some models once they deem us non-threatening. We drink more beer. I don’t care for the beverage but it makes you giggle a lot—and I enjoy that.  
  
We’re left alone now that Cheyenne finds me unworthy. A new target has turned up tonight, and she’s locked and definitely loaded.  
  
Andrew seems fairly sober in comparison to Lydia and most of the guests. You and he make a delicious dinner of chicken and grilled vegetables. I find one other person to converse with while you are occupied. Despite being a model, she’s intelligent and was dragged to the party by her actress girlfriend. Unfortunately, neither have gone public and she has to endure propositions from drunken men as well as watch her lover flirt with the same disgusting men.  
  
"Why did you tell me?" I ask.  
  
"You’re not like the rest. I can see you’re only here for him." She glances over to you as you grill chicken.   
  
"Yes, he’s my agent." I shrug.  
  
She nudges me. “It’s more than that.”  
  
I shake my head. “He has a girlfriend.”  
  
"I know. Claudia. I’m telling you, it’s there if you want it." She smiles.  
  
I frown. “But John’s not….”  
  
"Not quite there, it’s true." She nods in your direction. "He’s coming around." I catch you watching us. You turn back to the grill quickly. "Give him time," she says.

I force a laugh. “Whatever you’re insinuating…”  
  
"I can see it." She lays a hand on my arm. "Don’t worry, you’re not completely transparent. I was just watching you together."

How were we together? I want to ask, but her lover sits on the other side. If I pry, I confirm her suggestion. 

"Hey, where are you?" You place a plate on front of me. "Mind palace?"  
  
I shake my head casually. “Just making deductions.”  
  
"Ooh, sounds juicy." You plop down beside me. "Care to share?"  
  
"Always." I grin.  
  
While you uncork the wine you brought, I divulge the darker secrets of the crowd. No one pays us any mind. I ignore the knowing glances from my new acquaintance. The first bottle disappears quickly. It could be either the late summer breezes or the alcohol, but my cheeks are warm.  
  
"How ‘bout a swim?" I suggest.  
  
"Want to bring another bottle down with us?" You ask.  
  
"Make it a good one." I wink. I’m feeling flirtatious. I think you’re just inebriated enough to either not notice or not care.  
  
You return with another bottle of red. “I know it’s gauche, but we’ll have to swig from the bottle.”  
  
"And share germs?" I pull a face.  
  
"You git. Last to the water is a wally." You take off down the beach.  
  
"Don’t spill any of that!" I shout and run after you. For short legs, you can be rather fast. As a native here, you’ve the benefit of experience in sand running. I am as graceful as a baby foal with my long legs betraying my footfalls. You watch me stagger to the shoreline laughing. 

"Git," I pant with my hands on my knees  
  
"Here, have a drink." You offer the bottle to me.  
  
I take a gulp larger than one should for a wine of this caliber. I feel reckless and ridiculous—it’s brilliant. The sinking sun disappears behind dark grey clouds. You’ve already peeled off to the water. The air has chilled enough to make a swim foolish. However, the sight of water dripping off of you drives me into the icy water.  
  
"Christ," I yell as a cold wave hits me.   
  
"You swim in the North Atlantic," you laugh.  
  
"I’ve never been a beach person. Even as a child when we would take a holiday on the shore." I shiver.  
  
"And I’ve dragged you here twice." You duck under the water.  
  
"I like it here," I say when you resurface.  
  
"Good," and you splash me.

We swim and duck into waves. The sea grows angry and it becomes hard to stand in the surf. You swim under me, brushing my inner thigh. I get my feet under me to stand. I feel a weight on my back as your arms wrap around to toss me into a wave. Normally your skin on mine would short circuit my drowned brain, but I feel something very distinctive and electrifying poke against my buttock. The water is cold, and unless you are deviant of nature, you should only have an erection because you are aroused. I fight your pulls, if only to feel you rub against me. I twist around, pretending to struggle. Your erection presses against my thigh. I can’t fight my own which you must feel mine poking your abdomen.

Our wrestling is more like rubbing against each other. Do you understand what you’re doing? I have to stop this before I moan and truly embarrass us both.  
  
I freeze when I feel lips on my shoulder. I’m so shocked I have to fight the urge to cough.   
  
"Gotcha!" And I’m plunged into a wave. I feel like I’m in washing machine. It’s dark and light, salt water fills my mouth. I struggle to right myself when strong arms pull to the surface. I cough and gasp.  
  
"Christ, I’m sorry." You pull me towards shore.  
  
My feet find the sand, and I stand in waist deep water.  
  
Your hand cups my shoulder as you push my hair out of my eyes.  
  
"Are you okay? Can you talk?" you ask.  
  
I feel shaky and a little angry. Did you know I wanted to feel your lips? Did you just use that to disarm me?   
  
"You know I’m not the strongest swimmer," I cough.  
  
"I’m sorry, Sherlock."  
  
I look up and see your blue eyes wide with worry. “I’m fine,” I pant. The wine has lowered my guard and I need some water.  
  
"Let me help you," you say.  
  
"Sod off." I splash with a smile to lighten the mood.  
  
You lose your footing and go under. I wait to feel you tackle my legs or pop up and spit water in my face. It’s just me and the waves.   
  
"John!" I panic. Should I dive under? At least one minute has passed and no bubbles or sign of you.  
  
You break through with a large splash.   
  
"Jesus, John! I thought you drowned!" I yell.  
  
You stop laughing. “You didn’t feel me under the water?”   
  
"No, I’m numb from the waist down. Christ!" My heart pounds.  
  
"Let’s get you out of here. Sorry." Your hand rests on the small of my back.  
  
I’m angry, but when you touch me it evaporates. With a grin, I splash you and attempt to run to the shore. I know you’ll beat me having spent more time frolicking in the waves. You grab my arm. Your laughter rises about the roaring ocean.  
  
"You insufferable clot!" You spin me around.

  
I don’t see it coming. Your hand wraps around the back of my neck to bring my head to your level. The kiss is not tentative, but deliberate and full. It wasn’t a closed mouth press of lips, but like the second part of our first kiss. Tentatively, I place my hands on your shoulders as I try to balance in the water. Your tongue teases mine and the gooseflesh breaking across my skin is not from being cold. As I move to deepen the kiss, a wall of water slams into my face. I stagger and blink against the salt that stings my eyes. I hope to God that it was not another playful splash.

 _  
_"What the…?" You push your hair out of your eyes. "Rogue wave!" You beam. "Storms brewing. Let’s get out of here."  
  
We stumble onto the beach. I turn to see that the orange sunset has been swallowed by dark clouds.

A towel hits my chest. You’re rubbing a brightly coloured cloth over your shoulders and chest. An ache deep within knocks the wind from my lungs. How do I get us back to kissing? I’m not ready to initiate that. We’ve been drinking and your judgement is impaired. You lay your towel on the sand and toss yourself down on it. Your lips wrap around the wine bottle and you take a large pull.   
  
"We still have most this bottle to finish." You offer the bottle to me.   
It’s not your lips, but you’re not running away.  
  
I lay my towel beside yours and sit close to you. The wine burns on the way down.   
  
You shiver. “That air has changed.”

  
  
"Should we head back?" I ask.  
  
You look back to the house then to me. “Not yet.”  
  
"It’s a bit raucous." I nod.  
  
"It’s my brother." You shrug. "Eventually they will pass out."  
  
I lean back on my arms and listen to the distant thunder. “How long before it reaches us?”   
  
"Probably a half hour." You take another large gulp then toss a glance in my direction. We pass the bottle between us as the rumble of thunder draws near. The wind carries the sounds of laughter and music from the house to the shore. I take smaller sips as I can feel control slipping. You tip your head back to take another long pull. You cough and red wine sputters across your chest.  
  
I pat your back. “Are you alright?”  
  
You nod as you cough. “Windpipe.”  
  
I grab my towel and wipe the wine off your chest and stomach. I feel your breath quicken. I’m certain you watch me.   
  
"Excuse me," I clear my throat when I meet your gaze.  
  
There is heat behind your eyes. “It’s fine. Totally fine.”  
  
It’s my turn to cup your head and bring our lips together. Your mouth opens under mine without hesitation. We topple over on to the cool sand, but do not stop kissing. We don’t come up for air. The sand bites into my back and scratches, but I don’t care. You are draped across me with your tongue plunging into my mouth. Your erection juts against my hip. I try not to think; just feel. You’re drunk and I’m taking full advantage of a lower sense of morality. Is this what you want? Have you thought about me?  
  
I growl and plant my hands on your perfectly round arse. How much more will you give me tonight?

I flip us over so I hover over you. You grab the back of my head to crush our mouths together. I lower myself on you to feel your erection beside mine. I’m afraid to move just yet; I want you to want it, ask me for it with your body. Your nails dig into my skin causing me to buck against you. You moan and move your hips against mine.   
  
I’m afraid to speak or moan, as if it would bring you out of your dream state and end this. I move in rhythm with you. I have to taste your skin; I drop my lips to your salty neck.   
  
"Sherlock," you whisper as you crane your neck to give me access.  
  
Your voice and my name unlock the lustful urges I’ve managed to control for months. My fingers graze your ribcage as they slip lower.   
  
A crack of thunder causes us to jump apart.   
  
"Shit, that was quick," you say.   
  
"At least I wasn’t," I smirk.  
  
The sky lights up like a strobe light. A thick white bolt strikes the ocean with a sizzle and ear splitting crack.   
  
"Let’s go." You scramble to your feet.   
  
I grab my towel. I hear the rain before I feel the stinging pelts on my skin. Disappointed, I follow you. The damn weather is the biggest cock block I’ve encountered. Now we have to go in the house with everyone else. How will I recreate the moment that was just lost?  
  
"This way," you call. You duck under the porch and behind what I thought was a shed. I glance around the corner to see a large shower. "It’s new. Harry out it in a few weeks ago," you look over your shoulder.

I do not know what to do.

"So we don’t track sand in the house. This was a present for Clare," you say.  
  
I bite my lower lip. “Good idea.”  
  
You just stare at me. I’m rooted to the spot. As much as I want to toss myself at you, I’m afraid you are unsure now.   
  
"We should…rinse off," you clear your throat.  
  
"Yes." I nod tightly.   
  
Through the slats, the lightning flashes and flickers across what appears to be a feral look in your eyes.  
  
"Fuck," and your body pushes into mine.  
  
I accept whatever you offer - hands and tongues. Finally this is happening. Your arms wrap around my waist and you walk me back against the shower wall. While our kisses were sloppy in the sand, you now slowly probe my mouth as if you are trying to map it out for future reference. I cup your face tenderly like you’re precious—because you, John Watson, are.   
  
I hope my lips tell you how much you’ve come to mean in a few short months. You’re more important than anyone else I’ve known.   
  
The roll of your hips against me bring me back to fire of now. I grasp your arse and pull as close as I can.   
  
"Gorgeous," you mutter as lips slide across my jugular followed by the nibble of teeth.   
  
"You are gorgeous." I sigh.  
  
"These lips are ridiculous." You laugh against my mouth, then we kiss again.   
  
The wet suit chafes me but I don’t care. I could have a stinging blister, but it came from you.

My thumbs brush over your erect nipples and elicit a groan that goes straight to my cock. Bravely, my hand slides down your stomach to cup your erection. You thrust into my palm. I love your eagerness. The intensity of our kiss rages out of control. You bite my lip; I couldn’t want you more.

Your nail flicks my nipple and I gasp. I’m almost embarrassed by the noises you bring out of me, but your grin eases me. Your hand slips lower.  
  
"Can I touch you?" you ask.  
  
"Please," I manage to choke out.   
  
Your fingers slip under the waistband of my swim trunks. Tentatively, they brush the head of my penis, and then caress the shaft. “You’re so hot,” you murmur.

I cup the back of your head to kiss you. Your fingers enclose around my cock to slowly stroke. I push my trunks past my arse to the top of my thighs. You break the kiss to look down. “God,” you sigh.

I slip my hands under your suit to squeeze your arse. One hand slips to the front to take your cock in my hand.  
  
"Oh fuck," you throw your head back.   
  
We stroke each other between sloppy kissed and nipping skin. I manage to push your suit to your knees. I watch the head of your cock thrust through my fist. I want to drop down and taste you. It’s been years since I’ve wanted a cock in my mouth. There’s time for that later. I know this is your first physical encounter with a man, and I need to follow your lead.   
  
"Don’t stop kissing me," you plead.  
  
"Never." I push you back against the wall. I release your cock, and hiss in disappointment. "Trust me." I nuzzle your neck.  
  
You swallow hard and nod. I place both hands on the back of my neck. “Just hold on.” I line up our cocks to wrap one hand around both. I start slow, enjoying the feel of your penis pressed to mine.  
  
"Oh, Sherlock," you toss your head back.   
  
My thumb swipes over our tips. Our preejaculate mingles and provides proper lubrication. Our mouths clash again. Kisses dissolve into panting into each other’s mouths as my strokes quicken. I try to hold out for you. It is is extremely difficult as I’ve thought about this almost daily since we met. I think of mundane things, but when you bite my bottom lip, I nearly lose control. I move my hips along with the strokes. One shaky leg wraps around my hips. Oh, God. I feel contact from scrotum to tip.   
"Oh, John," I moan.  
  
"Yes, God yes!" You hiss as your ejaculate warms my belly. I come so hard my legs shake. I bear your weight as I slide against you.  
  
I pull back to look at you. Glassy eyes blink up at me. I begin to fear your level of inebriation. A chuckle alleviates my concern.  
  
"You are brilliant." Your leg plants on the ground. I miss the feel of your heel against my back.   
  
"You’re the amazing one." I kiss you slowly. I cannot believe I’m allowed to do this.  
  
The rain has stopped. We’ve completely missed the storm.  
  
You look down at our bellies. “Now we really need to shower.” You turn on the taps and grab shampoo off a shelf. “Hold out your hand. I know it’s not your posh salon hair cream but it’s what we’ve got.”  
  
"It’s fine." You could hand me dish detergent which would certainly dry my skin beyond repair and I would accept it happily.  
  
I force myself to focus on the moment and drink it in—you naked and wet beside me. In the past, I would be planning my escape route. Tonight, I am thinking of ways to seduce you. What if you won’t share the bed with me? You don’t seem awkward, but you are drunk.   
  
I want to wash your hair and body, but it might too intimate—more so than masturbation.   
  
"You’ve got sand on your back. Want me to wash it off?" You ask.  
  
"Please." I sound husky and needy. You rub soapy circles on my back. I could almost get off again.   
  
"Do mine?" You stand in front of me.  
  
I take my time and leisurely wash from your shoulder to the dip in your back. I want to run my tongue along your spine to catalogue taste and texture. Your head drops back in enjoyment.  
  
"Your hands," you mumble.  
  
"Yes?" I say in your ear.  
  
You spin to kiss me. I can’t get enough of you. If I need to be addicted to something, it might as well be your sighs and nips.  
  
"Storm’s over!" a voice calls over our head on the deck.  
  
"Light up the grill. I’m starving," another voice says.  
  
Quietly, you turn off the taps.  
  
"We should go," you whisper.  
  
I want to kill the people above us. We were on our way to another moment, where I could taste you, touch you and please you.  
  
Instead, I nod. You toss me a towel so I can dry off. I rub my hair to dry the excess water. A hand brushes back my unruly curls.  
  
"You’re ridiculous, you know." You wrap your towel around hips I could ride until the sun comes up.   
"Why don’t you go first. I’ll meet you in the kitchen."  
  
I take a chance and lean forward to press my lips to yours. You smile and hum contently.

  
  
"Go on." You pat my bum as I pass.   
  
Feeling light as a feather, I leave the shower to sneak into the house.


	23. The Blower's Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John join the party after their shower.
> 
> Title taken from this Damien Rice song, The Blower's Daughter  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5YXVMCHG-Nk
> 
> And so it is  
> Just like you said it would be  
> Life goes easy on me  
> Most of the time  
> And so it is  
> The shorter story  
> No love, no glory  
> No hero in her sky
> 
> I can't take my eyes off of you  
> I can't take my eyes off you  
> I can't take my eyes off of you  
> I can't take my eyes off you  
> I can't take my eyes off you  
> I can't take my eyes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize a thousand times for making everyone wait so long. I want to thank DarlingBen for being an awesome beta. I want to thank everyone that has had patience with me in posting an update. I hope to have them every few weeks as this is rotation with 2 other works. 
> 
> I love comments or recs if you like this work. I can be found on twitter @punkroxmum
> 
> Thank you so much!

Sherlock

The house is too bright as I pass the revelry to your room. Quickly I scan my torso for any distinguishing marks that would give us away. Nothing that screams that we've just devoured each other in an outside shower. The wine makes me drowsy, and I'd like nothing better than to curl up with you on the bed.  
  


I pull out one of your shirts and pair of pyjama bottoms. Before I meet you in the kitchen, I duck into the bathroom to brush my teeth in hopes of another snogging session.   
  


With tentative optimism, I pad out to the kitchen. You are already there in a pair of shorts that show off those powerful thighs. You're working on opening another bottle of wine, which I'm not certain is a good idea. Tomorrow is a long day traveling to Toronto. Although who knows what could happen if your inhibitions lower even more.

  
  


  


 

"I thought you fell asleep," you smirk. Your hair is still damp and tousled, and I just want to lean over a kiss you.   
  


I raise my arms. "Trying to find a shirt that fit."  
  


Hungrily, you gaze at the patch of abdomen that is exposed. "Stop being so bloody tall."  
  


You hand me a fresh glass of wine. At this point, it could be glorified vinegar, I'll still sip it.  
  


"They are playing some board game. Want to join?" you ask.  
  


"Not particularly, but I suppose we should be social," I sigh.  
  


"Beach Sherlock is a completely different creature." You nudge me with your elbow.  
  


"Not so different," I suggest.  
  


What I want is take this bottle of wine and you to your bedroom to continue what we started on the beach. There's so much of you to explore, I want to begin memorising every inch. Instead, I follow you to the living room to play some game called Cards Against Humanity.   
  


It's not all terrible. We sit on the floor with the bottle of wine between us. After the first glass, we just drink from the bottle. You sit cross legged and your knee rests on my thigh as if it's nothing. As if it's not driving me crazy with lust and longing.

 

It's an awful and raucous card game. A few times, you keel over in peels of laughter. Cheyenne leaves the game with some man who is supposed to be married and daytime television star. A redhead, new to the party, has been watching me all night. When I make a comment, she laughs the loudest. She stands to follow them, but not before bending to my ear.  
  


"Do you party?" She scratches her nose.  
  


Your back goes ramrod straight. The muscles in your arms tense.   
  


There is still a very small part of me that will always want to chase the high. Cocaine makes everything better - crap wine, bad sex and terrible company. So a little powder could make a night in bed with you amazing. It could provide me the courage to take this another step.  
  


"No, I don't," I state.  
  


"Too bad," she purrs.  
  


"Run along," you order.  
  


She shoots a glare at you before climbing the stairs after Cheyenne.  
  


We say nothing, but give one another a small nod.  
  
The party still rages when I stand to call it a night. With the drugs and alcohol, no one notices that I take my leave down the hall. I'm relieved to find my room empty and the bed undisturbed. In the past, I would have not thought twice about shagging on a stranger’s bed if the mood took me.  
  


I'm brushing my teeth when you walk in.

  


 

"Is it okay that I....?"  
  


"Yes," I say with probably too much enthusiasm.  
  


The room is steamy from the heat of the day. Unfortunately, the storm has not ushered in cooler air, but a thick humidity that clings to everything. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch you strip off your shorts and shirt to toss them in a pile at the foot of the bed. You climb on the bed and close your eyes.   
  


I take a moment to indulge in appreciating the vision before me. Starting at your feet still embedded with a few grains of sand, over the tanned muscles of your calves and thighs. My mouth waters when I get to the bulge in your black pants. I feel my own cock begin to fill, and there is no hope of hiding it. I'm so focused between your thighs I nearly neglect the trail of hair that disappears under those black pants. Oh, how they would tickle my chin as I slide my mouth down your torso.  
  


Before you open your eyes and see my raging erection, I quickly flick the light off. I step out of my pyjama pants and strip my shirt off. Slowly I lie beside you and watch the fan turn above us.  
  


"We aren't on a boat, are we?" you mumble.  
  


I chuckle.  "Too much wine?"  
  


"Just a bit."

Beyond the bedroom door, the music thumps indicating that Andrew's party shows no sign of winding down soon.

I feel the bed shift beside me. Should I say goodnight or just let you roll over to sleep? Suddenly, the weight of your body presses to me as your hands plant on either side of my head. I rejoice when I feel your erection nudging mine between our bellies. 

I open my mouth to take your tongue in as you attack me. One hand buries into the hair at the base of your neck while the other takes an experimental slide down your back to cup your arse. You growl into my mouth sending vibrations down my throat. Your hips roll against mine causing the sweetest pressure against my cock. I buck up to meet your thrusts. Fingers entwine in my hair as your tongue probes and explores every inch of my mouth. 

"Those fucking lips," you hiss, pulling back.

Messy kisses press to my neck as your body slides down. I squeeze the flesh of your shoulders between my fingers, desperate to hold on. Your teeth scrape over my nipple and a thousand fireworks go off behind my eyes. My skin burns under your mouth as you suck the skin around it.

"John," I whisper.

Your fingers slide across my stomach to push my pants down past my hips.

"Gorgeous," you mutter. Something flickers in your eyes as you stare down at my swollen cock - hunger or confusion? Perhaps contemplation. You've never had one in your mouth and you want to know what it's like.

I see your nerve slipping a little, or perhaps the haze of wine is lifting. I lean up to kiss you, afraid you'll pull away disgusted with yourself.

The fire returns and you push me to the bed. Your clothed cock rubs against my exposed flesh, sliding against the sweat between our bodies.

"I need more," you growl.

Anything, I think. You can have everything. 

You push your pants down to free yourself. Just the sensation of your coarse hairs against my sensitive skin almost has me come right then.

Spreading my legs, you fit perfectly against me. Your heavy scrotum slides against mine.

"God," I gasp.

  


 

"You feel amazing," you huff in the crook of my neck.

My hands cup your arse as I thrust up.

"Fuck," you groan and slip down to attack my other nipple with teeth, tongue and lips.

I want you to take me tonight, and I don't care if  we're not ready. I crave the burn of you claiming me again and again.

Your cock nestles in the crack of my arse.

"Christ," you gulp and freeze.

Desperate for the sensation of you between my cheeks, I hold your hips where they are as a slowly buck up so your tip slides from my scrotum and perenium to slide deliciously over my entrance.

"Oh God, Sherlock. Oh fuck," you pant and start to thrust.

I plant my heels on your lower back to guide your hips. With every movement, the tip of your cock teases me. If I added enough lubrication, you might just slide in.

The booming music masks the creaking of the bed as your pace becomes wild and erratic. I'm close with every nudge. I stop myself from reaching between us to line you up. Just the thought of you pumping in and out of me has me coming between us.

"Yes, I'm so close," you whimper snapping your pelvis against me.

"John, yes. God, I want you to fuck me," I murmur. "Want you inside."

"Sherlock!" You moan against my neck and come all over my arse and scrotum. Instantly, I feel slick and sticky, but ridiculously euphoric. 

Your movements slow as you work through your orgasm. The wine has staled on your breath, but I still reach up to bring our mouths together in a messy kiss. It begins frenzied with teeth and tongues fighting for dominance. Slowly it settles to a luxurious slide of lips and nips. I know my mouth is red from your assault. 

Catching your breath, you nestle against my chest. It feels like home with you lying between my legs. I want to ask if we can skip Toronto to stay here and spend our days swimming, drinking wine and making love. Mentioning the real world would be a mistake, I know. We are in this warm of post-sex haze and contentment. I run my fingers down your spine to catalogue every bump and dip. 

"Hmm. I'm tired now," you murmur.

"Then sleep." I caress your back and run my nails across your sweat damp hair. 

When you shift your hips, your softening cock peels away from me.

"Let me get something to clean us off," I suggest.

You groan in protest as I shift out from under you. Despite the heat in the room, my naked body feels cold without your contact. I run a flannel under the warm water and return to clean you first. With a small smile, you roll over and tuck your hands behind your head. Carefully I move your soft penis to clean underneath and all around. The heat reignites in my belly as you twitch in my hands.

"I wish I could give another go," you mumble sleepily.

"There's always tomorrow morning," I suggest playfully.

"Mmm."

I can't help myself from leaning over to kiss you.

"Clean up and come to bed," you murmur.

Quickly, I wipe myself with the damp flannel and crawl under the covers. You roll on your side to face me.

"You're so handsome it's unfair." Your voice is slow and thick.

"So are you." I turn my head to make out your features in the dark.

"Please." You yawn and scoot closer. Your lips press to my shoulder and your curls around mine.

I could live here by your side forever. Usually, I count the hours until I can leave. For me, sleep is a solitary activity. Feeling the heat radiate off your skin, I want this every night. Your deep breaths become light snores. The thumping music just outside the room stops around two in the morning. I drift in and out of sleep, afraid of letting the moment slip away through unconsciousness. 

In the predawn hours, I wake to find the dark blue hue of the room lighten to an ashy grey. It's unbelievably hot because you are curved around my entire back - from shoulders to thighs. I feel the huffs of your breath against the back of my neck. Normally I would feel trapped and I would plot my escape from a lovers' clutches. Instead, I pick up the hand resting against my chest to thread my fingers through yours. I'm sticky and sweltering, but happier than I thought possible. As the room gets lighter, my eyelids grow heavy. 

When I next wake up, I'm alone. The scent of bath soap lingers in the air but the bathroom door is open. Without looking, I know you've left the bedroom. I hear your voice float in from the kitchen. It's definitely a one-sided conversation. Maybe Harry? We are meant to meet him tonight. My heart skips. Perhaps Claudia? Maybe you are telling her that you need to talk. Will you tell her about us? Probably not. I know you might not be prepared to live outside the closet.

I sit up to a piercing throb through my temple. I, too, had more wine than necessary. It hurts to even run my fingers through my hair. Slowly, I trudge to the shower. The sweet smell of sex rises in the humid air of shower. I breathe it in before the shower gel washes all the evidence away.

I need to prepare myself that you may not be ready to admit that you are at least bisexual. Your attraction to me is apparent; I've no doubts on that. However, where we go from here, I feel less certain about. As I towel off my hair, the fog clears from the mirror revealing my reflection. As I suspected, my lips are swollen and red. Then I see it - above left nipple, a deep read mark made by your mouth and lust. It's still hot to the touch. I admire the circle of broken and raised blood vessels like a perfect souvenir of last night.

With a smile, I wrap the towel around my hips and walk into the bedroom to find you sat on the edge of bed with your hands folded in your lap and sour look.

The look in your eyes just about shatters my heart.


End file.
